Circular
by waterlit
Summary: A series of oneshots evolving around the order, the noahs, whatever comes to mind heh. Latest oneshot - She awaits the end of longing. Hevlaska.
1. 1

A/N: Hello! Hahaha i've decided to do up this content page of sorts, because when i read a collection of fics i usually stop reading after the first one, because i have limited time and cannot decide which ones to read. So to help you make a decision, i've summarized the chapters, and put up the pairings, so you can read whichever ones you prefer :D

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**2. Silent Spring**

No pairings. This oneshot muses about the relationship the Earl has with death and god, and how silence has always been associated with the Earl and his akuma.

**3. Poisonous Forest**

Tyki-centric, no pairings. It deals with how Tyki sees himself, and how he sometimes cannot differentiate and reunite his two selves.

**4. A Requiem**

Allen/Lenalee. They visit Matel after the war is over, and appreciate the love between Guzol and Lala.

**5. Solace**

Allen/Lenalee. Lenalee has one of those nightmares again, and Allen comforts her even while both know that the Earl will strike soon, and strike with deadly aim.

**6. Reminiscence**

Lavi/Chomesuke. Lavi visits Edo on Chomesuke's death anniversary.

**7. Tired of War**

Kanda-centric. No pairings. Kanda muses on war.

**8. Road's Musings**

One-sided Road/Allen, implied Allen/Lenalee. Road has nightmares about how Allen will never fall for her. Fantastical and a little dark, maybe.

**9. Fun and Anxiety**

Krory/Miranda and Allen/Lenalee. It's a normal day at the Headquarters, with the children of the exorcists (namely Krory and Miranda's child) worrying their parents.

**10. Broken**

Allen/Lenalee. One-sided Lavi/Lenalee. Allen died defeating the Earl, and Lenalee and Lavi make a pilgrimage to his tomb many years later.

**11. The Earl**

Earl-centric. The Earl was once a devotee, until god waged war on him.

**12. For He Can Remember**

Lavi-centric. Bookman reads an old manuscript that brings to life events of the past.

**13. A Princess's Love**

Sandra/Vittorio. A princess has to marry within her station, but true love will prevail in due course.

**14. Hair and Eyes**

Kanda, Lavi and Allen are vastly different in terms of both their hair colours, eye colours and personalities. However, their friendship is so strong that it enables Allen to defeat the Earl. No pairings.

**15. That Pleasant White-haired Boy**

Loufa dreamt of princes who would win her heart as a young girl. And then she met Allen, who stole her heart without knowing it. But Loufa cannot make Allen notice her, for his heart is already with Lenalee. Onesided Loufa/Allen, implied Allen/Lenalee.

**16. Suspension**

A third war against the Earl has to be fought because Allen failed to vanquish him all those years ago. The new Supervisor sees a lady suspended in a ice-like medium. Implied Allen/Lenalee, set in the far future.

**17. Of Vanity**

Women are vain by nature. Lenalee and Miranda's perspectives of beauty is explored here. No pairings!

**18. Circular**

Reever and Komui are good friends. Their friendship has a circular theme to it - giving and taking. No pairings (not yaoi!)

**19. Defeat**

Allen is defeated by the Earl, and he subsequently disappears. The Black Order still fights on, but they know that without Allen (and his reappearance), they wil never win. From his current location, Allen takes a walk to visit his companions, and he ends up feeling guilty for failing the world. Minor Allen/Lenalee.

**20. Bookman**

Bookman wrote a letter to Lavi. No pairings.

**21. Of You And Me**

Lavi loves Lenalee, but he left when he found out that she loves Allen, and not him. He spills his feelings to his diary and tries to write a poem. Implied Allen/Lenalee. Onesided Lavi/lenalee.

**22. Title**

How Eshii came to make 'title' his catchphrase. No pairings.

**23. The Language of Flowers**

Flowers are often symbols of human emotions. Allen killed Lenalee when the Fourteenth awoke in him, and he has never been able to present her with a bouquet of flowers. One day, he decides to bring flowers to her grave. Allen/Lenalee.

**24. A Monster Twice Over**

Eliade has never been anything but a monster. Slight Eliade/Krory.

**25. A Stalk of Grain**

Hevlaska awaits the end of longing.


	2. Silent Spring

Disclaimer: I own neither Silent Spring nor D. Gray - Man.

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"It was a spring without voices."

*

The sun rose and the sun sank without fail. The moon sailed the skies as always. Winter crept away, and spring sallied forth. Yet, the advent of spring brought not the cheerful chirping of birds, and the trees did not deign to awaken. The chilly fingers of winter still stretched far over the lands and enveloped all life in deadly frost. And in the dark recesses of the young world, the Earl of Millennium waited and bided his time even as his sickle wrought their first disasters.

It was truly the dawn of a spring without voices.

The Millennium Earl was not death's ally. Contrary to popular belief, both death and god were his foes. He thwarted god with a vengeance, desiring to reign supreme. He would never achieve his aim, but of course he could not know that. All he knew was that god had not protected his pious family, and burning with grief he had shed his devout mantle for a sorcerer's robes. Learned in evil lore was he, and steeped in the desire for destruction. Death too he threatened, stealing victims away from the lovely young nymph who flitted through the fields of night to lead souls to the heavenly glades. In later years the earl would portray death as his servant, though the rebirths he created were nothing as holy as true sleep.

In the youth of the world, the silent spring haunted the living.

So god sent down the innocence, destroying the Earl and his Noahs for a time. The flood came and washed away the black hearts, piercing them with needles of virtue.

Summer came and summer went.

Autumn descended and ascended.

Winter swept over again, and now she prepared to depart.

Spring rolled round again, only to open the book of silence. The ancient dread of the silent spring was renewed in that time, and the Black Order re-established. The exorcists assembled and armed with their innocence attempted to weed out the pests that brought about the silence – akuma.

The spring was silent, and the birds chirped no more till time was destroyed.

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A/N: Was reading Silent Spring by Rachel Carson (it's a lovely book! love the language though i can't stand the content) and got inspired. Not very good, i know, and much too short for my liking, but still. This'll be a series of unconnected oneshots ahaha decided to do this instead of just posting random oneshots. Mmm hmm. What else to say heh. Hopefully i'll do better the next time round~

Ohh and hahaha there mayn't be many pairings coming up - but if there's any it'll definitely include Allen/Lenalee :D So yes that's all, review if you could, thanks! :DD


	3. Poisonous Forest

Disclaimer: i own nothing~

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"It is a world where the enchanted forest of the fairy tales has become the poisonous forest in which an insect that chews a leaf or sucks the sap of a plant is doomed."

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The gilt mirror glittered as the first dewy rays of the morning sun filtered through the dense foliage without. Wincing, Tyki turned his eyes towards his reflection. He was quite handsome, he thought. Good-looking enough to draw in girls aplenty, which he had, in the days before he was reborn as a Noah. Running a hand through his casually layered hair he smirked. _Tyki Mikk, you're one good-looking fellow, no doubt about it. _

He was happy, for his life was flourishing. He was on his way to where his human friends were, and he'd just finished settling a particularly pressing matter with the Earl. Yes indeed, life was wonderful and glowing.

And then his visage changed. His eyes narrowed as his reflection rippled in the ornate mirror; the now greyish pallor of his face stared back at him, golden orbs twinkling maliciously in the still-soft light. His grey hands reached up, caressing the row of stigmata etched deeply into his forehead as his mouth widened into a leer. _Yes, that's me, _he thought_. That's what I am, and I can never change back again. _

The vision passed, and he sank down on his bed. Once a contented pious man, the birth of the Noah within him sent him into the dark abysses of vice and darkness. In days long past his was a glad life of many pleasures, and he lived on the enchanted dew reminiscent of fairy tales spun by the brothers Grimm. Yet now, it seemed as if he had strayed into a dank forest, with the unhappy leaves of the deadly nightshade trailing everywhere. All good things from him had fled, leaving behind the cold semblance of the life he once led. His doom had been fixed, and never could he escape. To the Earl he was bound, whether he liked it or no was not his to choose.

Forever foundling in the threads of the bloated spider he would be, withheld from both heavenly glades and the fiery pits of hell. It was his lot to remain in limbo, never to be saved. And he knew that.

In early days he had tried to resist the changes – unlike Road, he had not taken a sadistic view of things. Seeing innocent people he tried his very best to let them live, hurting the exorcists only when necessary.

Now though, resigned to his fate, he had slowly lapsed and let the Noah take control of him. Of course, he never descended to the level of Skinn Bolic; he was way too well-bred for that, and he never allowed himself to become the cool detached self that Lulubell was; he did not desire becoming a cold heartless man.

Desiring companionship, he sought among mortals, befriending some railway workers. And so they went on, and he never betrayed his unknowing friends, for they brought joy to him and he felt almost human, the way he hadn't felt for a long, long time.

But the mirror image destroyed everything. He could not keep up that gentlemanly, humane facade, for in him a Noah burned. He was no longer the Tyki Mikk of old – he was now a cruel heartless man bent on destruction. Anyone who knew him would suffer in the end, and he knew it. It rankled to know, all the same.

As the world spun on, he breathed. With the last of the human in him he would stay away from his friends. It was the least he could do to keep them safe. His fairy tale life that existed eons ago was over, and the spoon that deals him life is no longer sprinkled with the sweetness of enchantments. For he was now a poisonous tree; any insect that partook of him would be doomed to a fate worse than death.

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A/N: I'm still happily reading Silent Spring. Love the language used! I find Tyki to be a very intriguing character, like Road, he's nowhere as repulsive as the Earl or Skin or whoever else. He's like an onion, somehow. So yeahh, review if you please! :D


	4. A Requiem

Disclaimer: i don't own d. gray- man~

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Lacrimosa dies illa

Qua resurget ex favilla

Judicandus homo reus

Huic ergo parce, Deus:

Pie Jesu Domine,

Dona eis requiem. Amen.

*

The wind whispers with the laments of years as the sun sets on the arid land of Matel. The skies are now coloured with violet splashes, as if by the airy brush of an absent painter. The sun hangs low, caught in a web of clouds, seemingly unready to journey into the dark starry depths that will bring it to another unlighted part of the world. As the wind filters past, delving into the deep valleys and un-peopled plains, she howls, causing Lenalee to shiver and Allen to wince.

The young couple on a pilgrimage of Allen's past missions stop at the mouth of an old dusty town, rankling with the bitter taste of long abandonment. Inside, the wind sings, lonely and furtive, plucking the violins of cobwebs, with nightmares and dark dreams curled up in every corner. Hand-in-hand, the two dawdle in the streets as they walk past crumbling brick houses as the silky tendrils of the mourning wind tickles them. The wind misses the humans with all the stony coldness of her once-warm heart, and she makes up for it by welcoming the two youngsters with open arms.

Allen slowly leads Lenalee towards the hidden chamber where he, Kanda, Toma, Guzol and Lala once hid from the Level 2. Glancing sideways, he draws her into the musty cavern. Clearly, it has not changed much. The ceiling is still melting, and the cracks still form an intricate pattern on the four walls – or what is left of them, at any rate.

Stepping inside, Lenalee looks towards Allen. Her eyes take in the empty splendour of the previously beautiful hall, heart bleeding for its destruction. The wind agrees with her, crying sorrowfully for the loss of her children.

_So this is where you had your first mission_. Lenalee smiles as she digests this fact.

Allen, though, merely bows his head in respectful silence.

Allen and Lenalee set up camp within the abandoned city. That night, as rays of ethereal moonlight sinks through the cracks in the architecture, Allen sits up, unable to sleep. A long time has passed since he last set foot here, and his heart agrees. The love between Lala and Guzol was so very beautiful. It spoke of acceptance and contentment, and a desire to consider one's love in all things above all. _If I could but reciprocate Lenalee's feelings and treasure her to the end of my life, I'd be a happy man indeed_. And Allen finds much comfort in thinking that thought.

Lenalee shifts ever so slightly so she can watch Allen's back. Her eyes crinkle up and she smiles as she admires his lean shoulders. She feels doubly pleased; for the Earl has gone forever, and Allen has brought her to various places where his feet once trod. She feels that they are on their way to a happy and loving relationship. That Allen is now willing to share with her his burdens and let her know every single droplet of information about him pleases her. She loves to have Allen confide in her. _I love you, Allen-kun. I too want you to be the one to turn me off and see me off when I pass away into the dark unknown. _

She smiles.

He smiles.

They smile.

The next evening they stand upon the steps that lead to the pinnacle of the desolate city. With tender hands they toss petals, scattering the lovely pale floras into the withering embrace of the wind as she continues weeping for her lost children.

The petals spiral down, ever brushing against the glossy arms of the air. Allen reaches for Lenalee's hand, and she squeezes his.

Somewhere down in the town, the wind tugs at the remnants of echoes, stirring up a tender chord. Somewhere, the voices of ancient singers reverberate, casting the grief of years into the silence. Somewhere, wistful music waltzes, and Allen and Lenalee embrace, paying homage to the immortal love of Guzol and Lala.

The wind sings:

Lacrimosa dies illa

Qua resurget ex favilla

Judicandus homo reus

Huic ergo parce, Deus:

Pie Jesu Domine,

Dona eis requiem. Amen.

The requiem doesn't die down, for the wind tosses it into the air. The echoes are weak, but they are still soulful.

Allen remembers the broken doll and the dying old man, and he prays that fate will never sunder Lenalee and himself so.

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A/N: The ghost of martel is so very sad D: Thanks for reading, reviews are appreciated! :D


	5. Solace

Disclaimer: I don't own D. Gray- Man! :/

**Allen x Lenalee!**

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A silent whimper embraces the darkness. Lenalee stretches her hands out, feeling, trying to gauge her surroundings. The obscuring darkness lifts, and she beholds a scene too-oft visited, a nightmare that haunts her by night and frightens her by day. The sky is pink, pastel and joyful, splashes of watercolour from an artist's palette; no poignant blood-red streaks have been painted on the circular canvas to remind one of the threats that cloud the empty skies.

Lenalee knows this dream – nightmare, for it has invaded her sleep time and time again, causing her to fear for the lives of the people who make up her tiny world.

She steps forward, the knowledge of what will happen next weighing down her slim shoulders that have taken up a heavy burden long before they ought to. Her feet sidestep the grimy cracks upon the yellow paved road as they tread a well-practised path towards the tall building at the end of the street. Around her scenes of carnage and wanton destruction abound, and she prays that he is still alive. For he is their only hope – surely the destroyer of time will not be by time destroyed, he is their friend and comrade, and most importantly, he is Allen Walker, who holds a most special place in her heart.

Her feet bring her down the dark lane as she tries to resist, unavailingly so. Her heart aches as she remembers the body that she will cry over in a matter of minutes, for it is a thorny issue she never wants to face, ever. The walk shrouds her in shadows, all reminiscent of those familiar faces that are the pillars that hold up her life. Each silhouette she makes out in the dim unfiltered light taunts her, grisly caricatures of those she holds dear. And _his_ face stands out the most, the look of anger that distorts his features pulls at her heartstrings, as she hears his voice in the swirling wind.

_Why didn't you save me?_

The anguished cry echoes in the recesses of her ears for a long time.

She has reached the building, and finally sees the body. _His_ body. Her heart bleeds as she cradles him in her arms, too steeped in mourning for tears. Too many tears she has shed for him, and now nothing comes but a deep grief for their sundering.

The crescent moon grins behind her, malicious eyes twinkling as the fat Earl dances across the sky. She covers his face with his hood, before the tears finally fall, though barely able to assuage her gaping grief.

The lone street light stands in the middle of the empty street, and it smiles at her. The night breeze comforts her with soothing music as her tears now flow freely over Allen's pale, lifeless body. _You idiot_, she wants to tell him, _why did you ever go to fight the Earl alone? Destroyer of time by time destroyed._ Her lips tremble.

Thunder roars, and Lenalee jolts upright, legs kicking wildly till she realises that she has been fighting her blanket all along. The dream is still too vivid though, and she cannot stop the hot tears from pooling in her limpid eyes. In need of comfort, she grasps her way down the familiar stairs, and then she sees him.

"Allen-kun", she calls. He turns, and she sets the candle down on the table.

"You're still awake?"

She flies at him, clutching at him as she succumbs to tears yet again. In his embrace she finds the comfort she needs, and for the moment, only the two of them exist.

Solace reigns in the little room off the stairs. The candle light flickers, though, as the clouds gather without, and both know that time will not wait. For the Earl and his Noahs are well-versed in sorcery, and their life-spans long, but exorcists are mortal. Burning at both ends they reach the end the sooner, and it may come to pass that the time of the Earl may come.

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A/N: It's based on those dreams Lenalee always has hahaha.


	6. Reminiscence

Disclaimer: i own nothing.

**Lavi x Chomesuke**

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Lavi sat on the ground, unmoving.

He watched as the sun rose and then dipped.

He watched as night swished in, dark downy robes sweeping the penumbral silhouette of the failing sun, her cold fingers throwing deep shadows onto the soft ground and sending whispering trees into slumber. He watched, as his hammer in its extended form gripped the cool wind that fluttered fluidly through time and space.

He watched, as the luminescent, milk-bathed silver threaded her way through the dark rivers of the night, dividing waves of clouds. Towards the starry heights he gazed, and his eyes ever sought for a fragment of his lost heart. The cold stars blinked at him, undulating, revealing nothing in their flickering glimmer.

He watched, even as wafts of sweet-scented night breeze sifted through his flaming hair; the tendrils snaking through might have been the cold hands of Chomesuke as she ran them through his hair at their final parting. His eyes sighed, giving breathe to the words his mouth could not utter.

Years had passed him by since that night – the Earl had since been thoroughly defeated, and the akuma victoriously vanquished. His friends had moved on, living, loving and leaving, and yet he remained, more closed than ever, his heart beating away in a locked and hidden chamber.

He remembered that night in Edo, and his memory of that event still burned crystal clear. The few exorcists in the Cross Marian search party had gone to Edo for the express purpose of hunting down General Cross. There they had, with the help of Chomesuke, managed to make most of their way into Edo unseen. The Earl was there though, and the Tyki had waged battle on them.

Knowing they could hardly survive unscathed – if they survived – Chomesuke willingly sacrificed herself. And that should have been of no significance to Lavi, who had killed countless akuma. And Chomesuke, though undoubtedly possessing an attractive human coat, was an akuma. Then again, Lavi had been attracted to her. It hadn't been his usual "STRIKEEEEEEEEEE!" kind of affections, where he soon lost interest in whichever pretty girl he saw. Chomesuke was somehow… different. He felt for her in a way he'd never thought he could.

And then the Earl and his relentless gimmicks took her away.

Fist hit ground.

Eyes locked on the night sky, he cringed. Anger and anguish clouded his green eyes, and it seemed to him that the sky was a cauldron of seething black waves that hissed with the venom of slithering serpents. He wondered, as he did every year on her 'death anniversary', if her saved soul had turned into a sparkling star in the dark curtains above his head.

His fist softly caressed the powdery soil that nodded beneath the pale pink blossoms in Edo.

And like previous years, his clear green eyes were awash with tears.

Hands clenched, he tried to relax. Gradually, the writhing images faded and he breathed again. Distilling the pain, he was glad that at least Chomesuke had known his feelings before they saved her condemned soul.

Lavi stood up. The night was nearly over, and being a Bookman he had obligations. With a last lingering smile at the stars, he locked his heart again till the next year.

Lavi and Chomesuke; a love as noble and touching as that between Romeo and Juliet. No happy ever afters for any of them. For one died and the other lived on, an empty shell till the end of his days.

But then again, no tale that came after ever spoke of Chomesuke and her Lavi.

For bookmen have no hearts, and his fragmented one should never have existed.

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A/N: i believe that Lavi had a thing for Chomesuke. It's sad that she had to die D: And yeahh, i do know that in the manga/anime chomesuke's soul wasn't saved by innocence. But still.


	7. Tired of War

Disclaimer: i don't own D. Gray- Man!

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Kanda is an exorcist unlike the others. He fights not to protect the ones he loves, for his heart of stone knows not what love is; he fights not to save the akumas' souls, for he holds no pity for them in his non-heart; he fights not because he wants to influence the outcome of the war, for that end is not something he cares about. Kanda fights to keep his heart beating; he fights for the bloodthirsty purpose of revenge. And what a sweet word revenge is, too.

Even as he sits with his comrades in the canteen of the Headquarters, he munches away in solitary silence. His peers laugh, probe, and momentary happiness radiates from them, smothering him with the tenacity of heavy waters. Kanda remains silent though; he does not feel like fighting today, and he does not think it worthwhile to lose his temper with the annoying brats. He sits stone-still, unconscious of the hearty chatter flowing around the table, though Allen pokes and Lavi pries and everyone makes merry.

He sits alone amidst the fun and cheer, an ornament of gloom.

In his room he sits, staring intently at the blooming and wilting flower. A single candle burns gently beside him, soft harsh light throwing calming shadows over the contours of his smooth face. Half of him is shadow, melting away into an empty façade a pint of his silhouette.

The price for revenge is high. It seeps one of strength, till the avenger becomes but a shell of hatred that burns at both ends, hastening his early demise.

Kanda is preoccupied with his thoughts. They consume him and flood his little world. Shreds of glass pierce his cold heart; lightning and thunder hold full sway within him. He knows not who he is, or what he fights for. Sometimes, the desire for revenge disgusts him too. He is not sure. _Who am i? What do I seek?_

To lay down his weapons and sleep – that would be a good choice.

Behind his snarls and his scowls, he fights an inner thirst for rest from the tiring labour of holding a grudge. But he cannot change his image. He cannot withhold his anger from those who made him what he is, nor pretend that he does not hold the Earl in high contempt.

He is Kanda, and Kanda is not supposed to tire of war.

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A/N: Mmm i'm not sure if this is ooc or not. I'm not too interested in Kanda - i think he's nowhere as engaging as Lavi and Allen haha. And this's the first time i've ever written a fic with Kanda as the main character. Rather hard :/ hahaha but yeahh, thanks for reading, and please review! :D


	8. Road's Musings

Disclaimer: I don't own anything D;

**Road x Allen**

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Road sat by her window, fingers tapping absently on the glass panels. Her golden orbs peered nonchalantly into the starless night, where the darkness was so thick that it seemed to wrap everything in its gloved fingers. _Tap tap tap_. Her nails continued to hit against the dark glass window. _Everything's so dark_, she mused. And her eyes seemed to glimmer in the little light that flitted within the room.

Nightmare after nightmare relived themselves in her head – since when had she feared such dreams? She was a Noah after all, and the Noah of Dreams to boot. Dreams such as those that tormented her should never have frightened her in the first place. But something in them resonated within her, and she shivered at the grittiness of her dreams.

The first had come in the dawn of night. Lying in bed, her mind burned feverishly in scattered places, and her soul wandered in the murky waters of dark dreams.

*

She was Rapunzel, and her prince did not rescue her. Stuck in a tall dark tower together with the cobwebs of ancient fears and the gathering dust of desolation, she sat by the window for what seemed like an eternity. Her spiky blue hair grew and grew, till it reached the ferns below. And then he rode in upon a yellow horse; white-haired, lean and kind.

Love at first sight.

With a cry of relief she jumped up, and the prince saw her. Up the tower he climbed, and he promised to come back for her. But he never did. It was only till much later that she learned his fate from her gaoler; he had fallen into the thorny bushes below whilst trying to save her. Blinded and scratched, he had ridden off into the sunset, never to come again into story or song.

The next moment, having flung herself out the window, she floundered in the sea of savage thorns that pulled at her, tears of misery welling in her golden eyes.

And then the landscape had changed. The dull moors of the dream morphed into an architectural complexity; wide open terrains were now marble terraces, and the glistening stars above were now strung across the flawless ceiling as sparkling chandeliers.

And she was dancing with the prince, the sweet, white-haired prince. His blue eyes twinkled at her as he twirled her around, gloved hands ever gentle. How she loved that steady smile of his! All too soon, the clock struck twelve, and the fallen princess dashed out of the palace, leaving her shoe behind. The prince stood at the top of the stairs, curious but unconcerned. He shrugged, smiled, and left, going back to continue the dance with a tall lady with beautiful big purple eyes. Road shook with envy and anger as her carriage pulled away.

*

Fists clenched. Flesh hit stone.

Road's gold eyes sighed as she hid her face deeper into the shadows. She held sway over the dreams of the first Noah, and she was the eldest child. But what of it? That wouldn't win Allen Walker's heart.

In the days before her Noah had developed, she had been like any other child. Perhaps a shade too sadistic, but she had still been very nearly normal. Like most little girls, she had dreamed of a big white fairy-tale wedding, with a prince who would sweep her off her feet towards her own happily-ever-after. She dreamed of babies, of love, of housekeeping, before her Noah came through.

A

L

L

E

N

W

A

L

K

E

R

"Allen Walker." Road wrapped her tongue around the exorcist's name.

Allen Walker, the Destroyer of Time. Who was he, to be hurting her heart in such a way? She was Road Kamelot after all, the eldest, the Noah of Dreams. She would not suffer her feelings in any way.

But as she closed her eyes, her thoughts once again drifted to the white-haired exorcist. She found herself unable to imagine herself playing with him by shooting candles at him, for some reason. She could taste the exhilaration of hurting the girl exorcist – Lenalee – though. _Strange_.

If only the Noah would leave her. She could envision herself twirling in Allen's arms, waiting dutifully for him at home while he went off to fight akuma…

_We are not destined to be_.

Stabbing her pillow with a hastily conjured candle, Road hid her tears in the sightless robes of night. He was an exorcist, she a Noah, and they could never be together, no matter what she might beg the Earl to do. Her tears gushed forth like a river, and he slipped further away from her with each tear.

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A/N: i'm not a fan of road/allen, but i thought it'd be nice to explore the interaction between the two of them. road seems a little ooc here, not sure though. but yeahh, it's a mostly one-sided love sotry xD

review if you want to! ;)


	9. Fun and Anxiety

Disclaimer: i don't own anything :/

**Krory/Miranda, **minor Allen/Lenalee

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"Kroryyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!"

Miranda's terrified voice resonated through the connected rooms, words bouncing off the soft tapestries that hung over the walls. Wringing her hands, she turned to Krory with anguish written on every line in her face. Her eyes were huge, and her pupils dilated, and her mouth was frozen in the way it ended up after her scream. Krory, busy with their youngest child in another corner of the room, turned, and looked.

He jumped.

His white forelock tumbled over his face as he hastily dumped the baby back into her cot. With swift movements, he went to her side and captured her trembling hands in his own larger ones. With a soothing gravelly voice, he smiled at her.

"Calm down, dear. What's wrong? Don't panic!"

Still she hyperventilated. Gasping, Miranda tried to calm herself down, taking in large gulps of sweet-scented, dew-frosted morning air. Her dark curls wobbled and she clutched at Krory to stabilize herself. He was her remedy, and after a couple of deep breaths she fairly calmed down. Releasing herself from his gentle embrace, and releasing him from her iron grip, she took a step back.

And then she hesitated.

"Uhhh Krory, he's missing." Krory just stared at Miranda till he figured out who 'he' was.

_Ohh, great_. Their eldest son was missing, again.

"You know, Miranda dear, he might have just gone for another run down the corridors. You know how hyperactive he gets at times." Krory attempted to act rational. He had to, even though he was every bit as worried as Miranda was. But he knew he needed to be calm for her, so that she wouldn't go into hysterics again.

It was still early, but the Science Department was already abuzz with morning sounds, intermingled with soft snores and the fresh tingling smell of hot coffee. Lenalee still flitted around the room in a tight skimpy outfit – neither marriage nor motherhood had drained her love for such apparel. Not that Allen minded, anyway. He followed behind her, little Mana and little Arystar in his arms. The couple wove their way through precarious piles of paper and documents, with Lenalee cheerfully delivering lovingly brewed coffee into the hands of all the tired scientists. In no time at all she came to Komui's door, only to find him sleeping.

"Supervisor! Stop drooling on the documents! That's the third time you've done it this week!" Reever suddenly shouted from behind her, his frustration lowering his voice a few octaves. With wide strides he approached the cluttered table, brows furrowed in fatigue. He bent, mouth to Komui's right ear.

"Lenalee's getting married!"

With a pained shriek up Komui leapt, before coming to a standstill in front of Lenalee. Sobbing, he clutched at her. She sighed and stood there expressionless as he continued to cry down her dress. Allen chuckled, amused, somewhere behind her. He still found it amusing the way Komui would carry out this activity every morning, even now when Lenalee was happily married to him.

Mana and Arystar chuckled in Allen's arms. Surprised by the unusual noise, Komui peeked around Lenalee, and immediately stopped his embarrassing bawling when he saw the toddlers. With a toothy smile he tottered over to them, gathering the two for their usual morning hug.

With a smile at each other, Lenalee and Allen left the room.

"Lenalee!" Lenalee turned towards the sound of the voice as she stopped before the entrance to the canteen. Miranda and Krory ran huffing and puffing towards her, eyes wild with worry as they caught up. Allen poked his head around the entrance, impatient and hungry.

"What's up with you two?" Allen queried, stomach rumbling.

"Have you seen little Arystar?" Miranda almost shrieked.

"Yeah sure we picked him up on our way to the Science Department. He was sitting outside the canteen. Why? Ohhh and Lenalee can we go in now I'm starving!" Allen whined, hungry growls churning in his empty stomach.

"Okay, thanks!"

And the anxious parents zoomed off towards Komui and their eldest child. Without a backward glance, Allen pulled Lenalee into the canteen.

"Reever-san, have you seen little Arystar?" Krory asked.

Beside him, Miranda panted, her face contorted with anxiety, fists clenched in a heroic effort to stem the tears of panice that were pooling in her eyes.

"Ohhh, yes. He's in there playing with the Supervisor and Mana, isn't he? Wait a bit. I'll get them!" Reever scooted to the door and poked his head in.

"Supervisor! What are you doing! Stop stealing those kids away from their parents! Get back to workkkkkkk!"

Komui sweatdropped. Reever was scary when he got angry. With a sigh he stood up and shooed the kids out of his office. Miranda smiled with relief as Arystar came tottering out. Pulling him into a vice-tight embrace she sobbed. Krory too smiled as he watched them, and he, too, put his arms around his little family.

What no one saw though, was the wink Mana shot at Arystar.

_Tomorrow, same time, same place._

* * *

A/N: hahaha another krory/miranda fic! i'm not really all that fond of this pairing. ohhh well. i don't much like my writing here, it doesn't seem to flow well. sighs. i'm not much good at writing family/happy or any non-angst stuff i guess. anyway, please review so i can improve! thanks :D


	10. Broken

Disclaimer: I own nothing! :D

**Allen x Lenalee, onesided Lavi x Lenalee**

* * *

_I'm broken. _

_Broken like the darkness that ripples as the wind whistles. _

_He is dead, and nothing will ever give him life again._

_Destroyer of Time, himself destroyed. _

_The darkness ripples._

* * *

Graveyards are hardly pleasant places, and the old labyrinth-like burial ground situated behind the forgotten Headquarters vindicates that. Night rules the sky and the pale glimmer of the moon barely illuminates anything. Yet there are two people making their way towards the central gravestone. Both old, though not quite frail; they stumble as they encounter resisting gravestones that block their way. The labyrinth is hard to read without the light of the sun.

The woman falls again; this time round, the old man catches her. He supports her, a human crutch, as they limp their way towards the ostentatious marble monument sitting in the centre of the labyrinth. Time flows on, and they reach it. The old lady sinks to the ground, wrinkled hands reaching out to feel the smooth stone beneath her gnarled fingers. Those same fingers run across the glossy surface, and then they meet the grooves. Etched deeply into the marble are the words she has wanted to touch again for a long time. _His_ name is there.

She smiles, and her fingers flow over the surface again, and it seems to the old man that time has slipped into a past recess. The old woman seems to him young and happy and whole again, her dark green hair flying in the gentle wind. Her face seems as unwrinkled and smooth as of yore, as she relives memories from the distant past. It almost seems as if _he_ were here again. The wind fades, the moon escapes from her cloudy net, throwing a little more light onto the desolate world, and the old man realises that his companion is really an old woman with scant white hair.

* * *

She touches the smooth stone without hesitation. The stone still feels heavy after all these years. It reeks of _his_ death; that death that broke her soul and mind like no other event could.

Decades have sped by without her consent, and now she can think about _him_ without crying. Much. But she knows, deep down, she loves him as much as ever. Not even death can sunder _him_ and her.

Her fingers touch the stone. She can almost see his face across the marble river.

She smiles.

* * *

The old man looks at his companion and he smiles as he involuntarily smooths her hair out. Old age becomes her; it seems, to him at least. He turns his attention and his lone green eye to the moonlight-washed marble. He misses his friend too.

"Allen. How have you been?" The old mouth forms words of its own accord.

"Did you know that Lenalee is on her deathbed? But she insisted on coming here, so I had to bring her. She can't forget you, even after all these years. It's been decades." He sighed.

"We all missed you when you died. We still do, those of us who still live. Lenalee misses you the most of us all. I've always known that; she has never fully given her heart to me. Her heart left with you. But I've taken what I can. Spare bits."

"You know, I might have told you before, your death pretty much destroyed her. She wept for days on end. Komui was so worried. Later, though, she sobered up, but that grief has never left her."

"Why, why on earth, Allen, why did you have to die fighting the Earl? But we're all proud of you. You've saved the world. But you destroyed her heart."

He slumps forward, face all clenched up. Gnashing his teeth together he keeps back a sob.

* * *

As dawn enters, the old man awakens. His wife is dead; he knows it for a fact. She left with the ebbing of the tide late in the night, and he has never seen her face more peaceful. He buries her with the skeletons of _his_ remains.

The burial is over. Standing up, he takes one last look at the ghosts of his past. The empty tower against the rising sun, the dismal patches of unkempt greenery, and the hostile graveyard all glower at him. The bodies of thousands of his fallen comrades weigh upon the still air, and he gasps for air.

With a final look, he leaves. Bookmen are not supposed to have hearts, and he has risked too much of his. What would Panda think? With his wife's death comes closure. Now Bookman can be Bookman again.

Lavi has locked his heart in the grave that chained Lenalee's heart to Allen's.

* * *

_I'm broken. _

_Broken like the darkness that ripples as the wind whistles. _

_He is dead, and nothing will ever give him life again._

_Destroyer of Time, himself destroyed. _

_The darkness ripples._

_But I open my eyes, and find that I can see light._

_The years have been long, but I have found the exit, at long last. _

_I bid my ghosts goodbye._

* * *

A/N: This fic basically revolves around Allen's death. Lenalee loved Allen, but he died and she mourned all her life. She married Lavi, but she didn't really love him that way. Sheesh, it seems all wrong and complicated now. I don't know if this writing style is any good, it's not my usual. Or is it xD I don't know hahaha. Reviews are appreciated! Thanks ;)

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	11. The Earl

Disclaimer: I own nothing!~

* * *

The Earl of Millennium hadn't always been the Earl. He had other names too, once, in the days of his youth in the ages of world that are now forgotten. Then, he had once been a pious devotee of god, a preacher of the divine and the purveyor of the holy. In the spring of the world the Earl had once walked clad in glory among the bountiful trees in the vast gardens of Eden. There he had to wife a beautiful lady, who he loved dearly.

And so the human-Earl lived happily for years uncounted with his wife, for in that time the race of men had been forgiven for the grave mistake committed by Adam and Eve in the beginning of time. In Eden they flourished, deathless and ever-young. In the hallowed air of that land they dwelled, learning much, drinking deeply of lore and of wisdom. Yet in the Earl the inquisitiveness of his forefathers welled, and at long last he succumbed to the lure of the deceptive arts of darkness. In secrecy he practised, ever growing in power, but ever foundering deeper into dark fens of evil from which he would never again escape, not till he was destroyed.

The Earl was ever careful to leave behind no trace of his shadowy dealings with the darkness, yet he was still found out. Learning of the treachery of one child whom he had held dear, the god raged and would have killed him. But his quick wits saved him, and from Eden he escaped with his wife to earth. In the untamed world he plotted and grew in malice, thinking up plans for the world's end. And god would have left him alone, had he not meddled with the powers of nature and forged weapons of darkness in his sojourn here.

So with great anger god sent down a great flood that raged for days on end, a flood that destroyed much of what was. By that time though, the Earl had converted Noah and his family to his dark cause, and abroad their ship he went, safe from the watery depths that might have been his grave. Then god learnt of his designs, and being filled with a heavy wrath he killed the Earl's wife. So too did Noah lose his life.

In that dark hour, the Earl forsook his white robes. Picking up his dark mantle he declared himself the greatest sorcerer under the sun, learned master of evil lore. He named himself the Earl of Millennium, for he would rule time and bring about the world's destruction. He stood long over the cold bodies of his wife and Noah, and with hitherto-unheard dark words of terror and songs of wizardry he created from them the fourteen Noahs of the Noah clan, and them he bound to him with evil necromancy.

Thence came his first downfall in the age after the flood when the innocence that came with the flood defeated him for a time. Undaunted, his dark spirit arose again in later times, drawing his family together again. New akuma he made, feeding off the grief and misery of the mourning. That was, perhaps, the darkest of the vile deeds he committed, for the distortion of others' souls is ever punishable in the eyes of god.

The god though, did not step in to stop him, and for a time the Earl thought that the abominable god who slew his beloved had vanished.

*

"Kombawa."

The Earl smiled at the little boy before him. A sphere he now was, no longer the distinguished, learned preacher of old. Nor was he like to a devious sorcerer; his girth and mask recalled to mind a portly old Victorian gentleman.

"Let me help you recall your father from the abominable god who has abandoned this world."

And the little boy wiped his tears.

"Manaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!" And his voice rang out in the clear night.

Unbeknownst to the Earl, the boy he had just visited had been blessed by that same abominable god. The Destroyer of Time he would become in the fullness of time, and lead the world away from the wanton destruction that made merry under the hands of the abominable Earl.

*

For the Earl still thirsted with burning revenge, and in his Noahs he often saw glimpses of the fair face of his beloved, snatched away too soon.

Blinded by hatred he could not see that the Millennium was on its way to a slow burning into the unknown darkness, never to return.

* * *

A/N: If you've noticed, this fic contains alot of words and phrases that tolkien used. I'm still obsessed with lotr hahaha. Hmm this fic is about the Earl and why he became what he was. It's pure imagination, and i was inspired by this fic i read some time ago about how the Earl and the Noahs came about. Can't remember its name though, heh. Ohhh well. This is probably the last fic i'm going to write for the next month or so; my exams are coming, sadly, and i'm going to wean myself off fanfic. Sighs. Okay, that's about it. Reviews are appreciated!~


	12. For He Can Remember

Disclaimer: I own nothing~

* * *

The Bookman's papery hand strokes his beard as his head droops ever closer to the dying fire. Hardened historian though he is, the saga that tells of how the Destroyer of Time slew the Millennium in mortal combat still tugs at his heartstrings. He is old, and age stifles him, but still he remembers. Bookmen do not forget. On nights such as this, when the elements are in full sway, he likes to warm himself before a warm blazing fire, and read the old manuscripts concerning the Hidden War.

He can hear the cold wind crying and the lonely wolves howling. He can see the grey rain falling and the dim stars fading. He can smell the tempest and he can feel the chill that hangs below the dark eyeless curtains of night. He can taste the salt in his mouth. And the wind scratches across the glass window, and the front door rattles, and the burning logs hiss, and he can almost hear knocks on his window that beg, with translucent hands, _please let me in_! And then the fire cackles and thunder crackles somewhere far away in the land where imagination holds full sway, and he jumps.

He shivers.

A glance around the empty cabin tells him he is alone. Alone, alone, alone with the ghosts of his past.

He sinks into his cushioned armchair and closes his eyes. _Take a deep breathe_, he tells himself, _no one's here to grab you_. And then he opens his eyes and the flickering red of the fire drowns in the depths of his wise green eyes. His thin hand reaches for the aged manuscript. A thick stack it is, and signed at the bottom, with a flourish, are the names Bookman and Lavi. His dry lips stretch into a lopsided grin.

"The Hidden War", he reads aloud.

His old eyes travel down the page, lost in the mysteries of that age. He smiles as he reads about the innocence-caused happenings in the town of Matel – the requiem sang for Guzol by his beloved Lala shook his stony Bookman's heart. Pages flip by, and then he stops again. A frown appeared on his face as he considered the revival of Allen Walker's innocence, which had regenerated itself into an even more powerful form – the Crowned Clown, after an attack by the Noah Tyki Mikk. And then he smiled, happy and pleased.

The chapters on the happenings in the Ark he perused with bated breath, and each ordeal faced by the exorcists pricked his heart like never before. And then he came to the part where Allen Walker, Destroyer of Time, had been revealed to have the memories of the fourteenth.

In the pale firelight, his still-bright eyes sparkled.

And the tears fall freely when the manuscript ends with the line 'And the snow fell on the broken lands and broken bodies'.

The story of the unsung heroes and heroines of the Hidden War only the Bookmen now know, and their apprentices, and the apprentices that will come after. But in him alone will the memories of those dark days still dwell. For he can remember.

He can remember Allen's (not Allen Walker, just plain Allen) easy demeanour. He can remember Allen's ability with cards and his gentle charisma and his determination to save the cursed souls of the akuma. He can remember. He can still see Lenalee flitting about in her special boots, light as a butterfly, tough as a nut. He still remembers her fierce love for her friends and her willingness to protect all of them, and how that determination almost became a burden. He can remember. He can still see Kanda, sulking in a corner. He twitches his legs and remembers how he used to overwork them whenever he got on the wrong side of Yuu-chan. And his long blue hair! He can remember.

He can remember Krory, Miranda, and the other unnamed exorcists, scientists and finders who selflessly gave their lives and their time to save the world they loved.

The rain rattles the window.

Looking up, he seems to see a familiar face begging to be let in. Allen's face, that one is. And that one, with all the wet, bedraggled hair, is Lenalee's. And that is Kanda's. The faces close in on him, and he shrinks back into the cushions. _Get a grip!_ He tells himself. _They've all long passed into the darkness. They cannot get you here. They loved you. You love them. Stop hallucinating, Bookman!_

_And why did I not die? _

He shakes his head. But the thoughts do not subside.

The dying embers spill a wavering light over the shrunken man in the armchair. The manuscript lies disordered on the floor. The Bookman is tormented by his thoughts and memories. For he can remember. He is a Bookman, after all.

And he is also Lavi, who watched his friends and comrades perish in the great burning.

* * *

A/N: I swear this'll be my last fic till mid october. Ohh well. Reviews are appreciated hahaha.


	13. A Princess’s Love

Disclaimer: I own nothing~

**Sandra x Vittorio**

* * *

One born as a princess never has the luxury to choose one's groom for love.

*

Wavy golden hair danced in the wind, like the soft yellow leaves of maize plants on a warm breezy day. A fair hand wielded a brush gracefully, treading the teeth through a delightful mass of sleek curly hair. Purple robes draped the soft, rounded contours of the slim woman before the mirror, and they rustled in the light afternoon breeze. A sudden dusty gust from the deserts that lay beyond the sea caused the bejewelled wind chimes to clink, and pale eyelids fluttered upwards to reveal startling dark eyes where intelligence and the wisdom of years flitted. Now, that would have been unsurprising, except for the fact that the lady combing her hair in front of a gilded mirror was no old woman.

She was Sandra, Princess Sandra, beloved daughter of the king.

She was due at the colosseum soon, to watch men vying for her hand fight to the death with brave Vittorio. With a sigh, she swept the glittering bottles and objects lying on her table to the floor. What were these, when she couldn't have what she truly wanted? True love was something she aspired to, something she craved with the desperation of a hungry lion. But it was denied to her, that one tiny thing that gave back so much.

And all that just because she was a princess.

Her fame had spread far and wide ever since she was a child; rumours in far-off lands spoke of her unearthly beauty, as if she had been marked with divine grace. Princes of distant lands yearned for her after listening to tales of how she seemed to float through a room, back erect, with perfect deportment. Kings daydreamed about her Diana-like figure, rumoured to be the best in the whole world. Ordinary peasants too, sighed and wished they could ask for her hand, that human manifestation of beauty, Aphrodite herself come to life.

Scrutinising herself through narrow eyes, she sighed. She had always known and appreciated her beauty. She knew countless men sought her hand, but she did so want to marry one she loved. But that was just not done, when one was a princess.

A perfect, symmetrical face stared back at her from the fluid depths of her ornate mirror. Blessed with pale skin, she had cherry pink lips, accentuated by the light flush that coloured her white cheeks. A delicate brow grew below her wavy coiffure. Together with her soft clingy robes, she was an utter goddess to the men who fought for her love.

But love them she could not. For they were petty kings and power-snatching tyrants of nations far away from her beloved motherland. For they were miniscule in character, lacking love in their war-hardened iron hearts. For they were uncouth and coarse, nothing like the man of her pretty daydreams. For they were not intelligent as she was, no, they were dense and unwise, lacking effort in all they did. And above all else, they were not _him_. They were all none of them the man who had long ago stolen her heart; the man she could not marry, would not marry.

She was a princess, above all.

So she decreed she would only wed the strongest man. She bought herself time, knowing that the contests would go on infinitely, for she trusted in the strength of her muscular bodyguard.

Sitting in the arena though, made her worry, for some reason. She cared not for the lives of the princes and kings and rich men who came to claim her. Ever she worried, instead, for Vittorio.

But as things go, her beauty was far too rich for the weak soil of earth. Worry and fatigue unearned tossed her body into untold agonies, and pestilence aggravated it. Men still fought for her hand, while she lay dying in her airy room.

It came to pass that in the year of her twentieth birthday, death lingered in the land, waiting for the princess to exhale her last breath. Father and bodyguard watched her as she breathed her last, her brilliant eyes ever turned to Vittorio.

Her spirit lingered on earth for years after her death, watching over Vittorio, who loyally fought to find the world's strongest man. She watched, with bated breath each time he engaged in battle, and smiled each time he won.

In due time, the power of the innocence Vittorio wielded and the disappearance of a local girl brought exorcists to Rome. They fought, and she knew the end was near. The sword fell to the ground, and she flitted to Vittorio's side. With translucent lips she at long last kissed the man who had laboured so long and hard for her sake. Beautiful intangible hands stroked his rapidly aging face, and gestured for him to join her.

Seeing her, his soul smiled.

Together, the two twirled to heaven, hand in hand, as Vittorio's body crumbled to dust in the yellow sand where maize plants with yellow leaves once grew in the dry desert winds that blew from over the sea.

* * *

A/N: I'm back! :D My disgusting exams are finally over. They sucked something awful, but at least they're over. So yes hahaha, i know Sandra and Vittorio aren't really important characters. But they too deserve a place in fandom, as much as Guzol and Lala do. Heh, i hope you liked this! Reviews are appreciated, and thanks for reading! :D


	14. Hair and Eyes

Disclaimer: i own nothing whatsoever~

* * *

Where hearts are concerned, issues tend to get messy. Romantic love confuses, but friendship is ten times worse. Platonic friendships (such as those between the three male exorcists in question) are hard to delineate into simple, identifiable and understandable concepts. Sometimes hearts fail to recognise why they beat. Sometimes friends refuse to acknowledge each other and the friendship that spans their existences. Sometimes friendships falter. But one thing stays constant – friendship dies not.

It was one of those days when akuma tended to appear in huge herds. Standing side by side in a semi-circle, Allen, Lavi and Kanda drew their weapons skilfully. Nothing could be more different than the differences between the three young male exorcists. Perhaps, their only similarity was their youth; youth drained off too soon, too often, to heal the hurts of the world. These guardians of peace and life lived with endless battles even as they struggled to grow up to a sun-less, crimson-stained dawn. On the battlefield, though, they were at home, such was their life.

Or at least was, until Lavi unwisely spoke.

"Go everyone! We will win this fight! And that includes you, Yu."

In that instant Lavi found Mugen between his eyes, resting directly on his nose, its sharp edge glinting in the midday sun. He gulped perceptibly and tried to shift his face away from the metal teeth of that unhealthily bloodthirsty sword. Kanda's lightning-speckled eyes, narrowed to slits, had moved down to enact a face-to-face meeting with Lavi's clear green one. Behind them, Allen rolled his eyes, stretching his arms with a resigned expression on his pale face, though his pale blue-gray eyes glittered in the harsh sunlight.

"Call me that again, and off goes your nose." Kanda hissed, eyes burning with poisonous fury. Lavi could only nod.

With that, the minor disturbance was over, and all three returned to their starting positions. Then, with a sudden cry, the three exorcists delved in different directions, activating their innocence as they went. Three streaks of colour could be seen; sparkling white, glinting blue, and flaming red.

The blue-haired exorcist was on a relentless rampage. His sword was everywhere at once, unleashing tons of attacks on the unsuspecting akuma. Tainted akuma blood splattered everywhere his sword flew, but not one drop spilled on his long exorcist coat. Nor did his flying hair touch even a single drop of blood. With graceful moves he jumped at his enemies, slicing them without the slightest hesitation. Knife met cold metal without fail. His heart was as blue as his hair; he built walls to keep his friends and enemies out. He was ruthless, and it showed in the glint in his eyes. Calm and collected, that's what he was, and would always remain. Blue called to like, so the people of the saved future would say when they spoke of things long past.

The redhead flew in a different direction. His huge wooden hammer kicked up a blaze of destruction, and explosions followed in its wake. Akuma he scattered, and burned and saved, all the while remembering the one akuma he was unable to save. Chomesuke, he mouthed, over and over again, as if it were a talisman that would help him strike all the truer into the akuma. He fought for her, that modified akuma who had made his heart go thump-thump against his ribs. Wood smashed metal even as the Bookman-to-be lost himself in a recollection of memories of a surreal time in Edo. A fire burned where his heart sat, and his bookman heart smouldered in its own ashes. Passion fuelled his rage, and on he fought. He would save as many akuma as he could, for Chomesuke's sake. For Bookman's sake. For the sake of the friends he had made at the Order, friends he would never have known otherwise. Red keeps its passion well, and rage it brings.

Last of all, white robes soaring, the white-haired boy took off into the sky. From his left arm he drew a large sword, calling on the power bestowed on him to save the crying souls chained to the wicked skeletons of the unwillingly-made akuma. He smiled as he saw each tormented soul saved from its metallic prison. That was what his left hand was for. For the akuma. He fought, to protect those he loved best. He fought for the world, for the wailing souls, for Mana, and for his friends. He fought so he could continue walking on that path. He fought so he would still have a path to follow, even if it were the road less travelled. Allen's innocence worked alongside him to bring an era of peace. An era of doves, of white flowers and of white cloudy skies untenanted by the black gossamer threads of evil. His sword plunged and he prayed and hoped and waited, stirring his soul to find peace.

Red, blue and white. Years later people would whisper about the Hidden War, and discuss the ultimate fate of the three male exorcists who fought like brothers to overthrow the evil Earl. Lore masters would say, _the blue-haired one always saved his friends' backs. He was everywhere._ The old wise women would say, _the redhead had so much passion that he caused girls everywhere to swoon. But he kept his heart for Chomesuke only, and for her he fought to victory._ And last of all, the people would all agree, _but it was Allen Walker, the Destroyer of Time, who brought the final victory. It was him of the white hair who saved the world with his warm and peaceful inclinations._

And only the Bookmen, descendants and students of Lavi-long-gone, would listen to this, and whisper to each other afterwards, _but they were all three friends, and only the strength of their friendship enabled the Destroyer of Time to reach victory. And now they are gone, and we have no record of what happened, save what Lavi's mentor Bookman wrote_.

In that time though, Lavi, Allen and Kanda knew their friendship. They needed no tale to speak of their loyalty; together, the red, white and blue moulded together to bring a rainbow into the grey world that festered under the hands of the detestable Earl.

* * *

A/N: It seems to me that my writing's deteriorating by the day :/ Ohhh well. So yeahh, this was inspired by a scene in Ending 7 (or was it 6? I can't remember) of the anime, haha, where the three stand together, weapons drawn/in the process of being drawn. It was rather intriguing, i guess. And i really do think that the three of them are really good friends, even if they don't admit it. Yupps, so how is this! Reviews are appreciated, and thanks for reading this far! :D


	15. That Pleasant Whitehaired Boy

Disclaimer: i own nothing~

* * *

Not every girl grows up to become a pampered princess. As a young girl, she used to read stories of heroes who rode into stories in the gentle heat of dawn. These heroes intrigued her; she loved how they would courageously ride into battle with creatures both vicious and unsightly, so as to save a pretty princess or a meek maiden from the jaws of imprisonment. After reading Rapunzel, she dreamt of a charming prince who would sweep in and save her from the dreary monotony of life in a rural village. After reading Sleeping Beauty, she wandered into the nearby forest, braving trees and stones, hoping to meet an evil witch who would lay her to sleep for a hundred years till her prince came riding through the sunset. After reading Beauty and the Beast, she hoped for a wicked prince who she could reform as she manipulated (in a good way, of course) his pliant love for her to good purpose.

Of course, she had only wished for all that as a young, impressionable girl who loved romances. Now, working as a pragmatic assistant scientist in the office of the Asian branch, she had no time to devour romance novels the way she used to. And of course she knew that princes didn't really ride through the sunset, and that dragons and ogres and other mythical creatures were merely figments of fantasy. For all that, though, she still hoped that Mr. Right would find her soon, and sweep her off her feet.

And then he appeared, that pleasant white-haired boy. She first saw him as Fou carried him in. Seeing a glimpse of white atop an unrecognisable head, curiosity drove her to stare at the unconscious one. It was truly love at first sight. That pale, thin face, with all the noble features of the exorcist in question sent her into absolute ecstasy. She waited impatiently for him to wake, that she might get to look upon those lovely features once again.

When he awoke she almost cried for joy. Seeing him in the cafeteria for the first time since he awoke, she –

"Strikeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!"

– she fell head over heels in love with him again. There, sitting alone, was the white-haired exorcist, face scrunched up thoughtfully as he stared at the bowls of food before him. She could vaguely hear Shifu and Rikei muttering about his gluttony, but all she saw was that floppy white hair glimmering under the fluorescent lamps. Heart a-flutter, she dashed over to him, soup spilling all over the floor.

Bending over, she put on her best smile, and her sweetest voice, and she asked, "May we sit with you?"

The white-haired boy looked up, and he said, "Yes, sure."

She had to grab the chair's handle for support as she looked into his eyes and at him. He was even more mouth-watering than she remembered. His eyes were like unto silver, sometimes grey, sometimes blue, sometimes a sparkling silvery blue-gray. It reminded her of the choppy seas of her hometown, where she had once dreamed of a magical prince. And his scar was just so striking. It gave him a macho look that indicated a mature heart in a young body. It was his smile, though, that struck Cupid's arrow even deeper into her young heart. His smile was warm, pleasant, and friendly, even. There was something in his smile that held her blushing gaze, which made her woozy and intoxicated with youthful infatuation.

Her eyes were fixed on his face throughout the whole meal. His height notwithstanding, and his missing arm notwithstanding, she loved him. It reminded her of a time when she was a still a student in her native village. Then she had had been infatuated with the boy who used to sit with her. But she never divulged her feelings. Soon, he grew up and married her best friend. And that had hurt a lot, but she'd gotten over it. If anything, she had learnt a lesson, a lesson that she was going to put to good use this time round. She was going to secure Allen Walker to her with iron chains, and stake a claim on him.

His determination to regain his innocence only earned her respect and admiration. She persuaded Shifu and Rikei to sneak in to watch his simulated battle with Fou every time she could, to give him her silent support. She was awed by how much he wanted to regain his innocence, and by how much he wanted to return to the other exorcists. She vaguely wondered if, maybe, just maybe, he had a girlfriend at the Headquarters. But she soon swept that thought out of her head – he must like her, and only her. She didn't know that he writhed in agony in his sleep. She didn't know that in his sleep, he would call out names such as 'Lenalee', or 'Lavi', or 'Kanda'. She didn't know that 'Lenalee' used to escape from his mouth the most often, that Lenalee was often at the front of Walker-san's mind. She didn't know, and she was happy, thinking that Walker-san might be dreaming of her, that he might be slowly falling for her feminine charms.

In the depths of her heart, she saw Walker-san as the proverbial knight in shining armour who would save her from a dreary world of desolation. He would plant blossoms in her heart, and bring them to full bloom under his tender, loving care. He was the hero on horseback (or Fou's back, in this case) who came to rescue the damsel in distress, the beast who could be reformed so that he would share his burdens with everyone else, the prince who would awake her from a magical sleep in this sleepy ancient land of her birth.

Then he went away, disappearing into the Ark. She still dreamt of him. One day, and a very fine day it was, he reappeared again, this time in the company of other exorcists. She rushed up to him, flushing madly like a hibiscus in full flower, drinking deeply of his silvery eyes. All too soon, a large pair of hands pushed her idol away, and she found herself face-to-face with General Cross.

"Are you Allen's girl?"

That question made her blush more than ever. Her face was entirely red, and she did not notice Allen's embarrassed face beside her own, did not hear him saying "No! NO!". She was entirely encapsulated in her own happy dream world, where she was presently conducting a splendid marriage ceremony for herself and her beloved. And then her bright eyes faltered as she saw him, with his irreproachable behaviour, take the utmost care of the young female exorcist with those large purple eyes.

Her small crystalline world fell into pieces, and the timbers making up the foundations of her person caught fire and burned to a relentlessly small pile of ashes.

So Walker-san had a girlfriend.

So Walker-san didn't like her that way.

So Walker-san saw her as a friend, and nothing more.

Her eyes gazed at his soft clingy hair, lit up with desperation. She wanted him irrevocably, thirsted for his love, and hungered for his attention. But his gentle eyes were fixed on that floozy exorcist with the dewy violet eyes.

Not every girl is so lucky as to meet a gentle, loving prince, no matter what she dreamt of as a child. Indeed, as Lou Fa stared at the scene before her, she was likely to repeat the mistake her parents had made before her, and her grandparents before them. She would marry for convenience, not love. Walker-san though, would wed the love of his life, the long-legged Chinese exorcist in the time-to-come.

But she would be like sleeping beauty, who waited faithfully for her prince charming. One day, perhaps, Walker-san would realise her undying affection, and kiss her into the sunset.

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A/N: So that was loufa. I don't know, but it seems to me i'm recycling the chapter on road to come up with this. I've made both road and lou fa seem like romance-loving girls. Seems rather weird, but still. Hahaha, anyway i don't really like loufa. Her 'walker-san' cries are annoying. Mmm. So yes thanks for reading, and please review! :D


	16. Suspension

Disclaimer: i own nothing whatsoever heh.

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Doomed for eternity, the lithe woman stared, petrified, from her icy tomb of molten glass.

*

It was a black dawn that stepped with him into the mossy remains of the old Headquarters. Shivering slightly from the autumnal cold, and perhaps slightly from the dank chilliness that hung over the stones and bricks, the new supervisor looked around. Things needed patching up, but the entire structure was quite well built, and the building could be made fit for living within months. Soon the exorcists could be banded together, and missions could be arranged.

Beside him, an officer from Central coughed, his toothbrush moustache quivering somewhat. "I trust, Supervisor, that you will do your best in getting the Headquarters ready for the exorcists. I cannot emphasize how important your task is. We need to win the war this time round, seeing as we have already failed twice. If you fail, your negligence will be punished, like your predecessors were."

The supervisor could only nod. His eyes focused on the officer's pulsating fine-haired moustache, seeing in them the strait-laced and heartless ways of the men who had led the Leverrier clan since the beginning of days in ages long past.

_This man cares nothing for the exorcists. I will care for them, then, protect them from the vile fingers of the Leverrier family. I will care for this old, memory-laden building, for countless brave men and women have laboured and died here. That's why I'm here. I'm here to care for those who give so much to their superiors and to the world that they leave nothing for themselves. I will not the fail the exorcists and the world regardless of what the Central officers say. _

He was well versed in the history of the Black Order. Founded in forgotten ages out of dark years shrouded in gloom and dread, it had recruited the god-sent innocence for use in the first hidden war against the sorcery of the Millennium Earl. Somehow, the Order had failed in its first attempt, and the Earl had only been put to sleep for a short while. In later ages he rose again, shadowing the world again and pulling it into its twilight. But the second hidden war hadn't been a glorious twilight of abstract colours and lingering warmth. Instead, a desolate dusk had settled, with disenchanted dusts flying in the dry winds that howled in the night. Akuma were everywhere, and the Order was swamped.

Then came the arrival of one Allen Walker, the prophesied Destroyer of Time. It was a good omen, a harbinger of hope. _But hope oft fails when men's heart goes astray. Too tied to the soils of earth are we; always loving more than we should. Human hearts cannot endure, and failure tags after with great fanfare, like a May queen threaded with garlands_. And so it was.

Allen Walker disappointed the world, for he did not manage to kill the Earl. Again, the world entered a second age of waiting, while the Earl slept fitfully with the threads of dark lullabies and the lyrics of haunting memories dancing around him. With sleep always comes morning, and so was the pale light of day shrouded by the third awakening of the Earl. And so the tattered remains of the Headquarters were now needed once again to serve their age-long purpose.

"This way, Supervisor." The scratchy voice cut his reflections without remorse, and a pale hand gestured for him to go first. Obliging, he made his way down a dark, curving flight of stairs, into a silent darkness where no birds chirped.

And then he saw her – it – when they exited the airless stairwell into a well-lit chamber. In the middle of the room was a pedestal upon which a figure skimmed. There was a shimmering translucent substance moulded into a huge cylinder, and within it was suspended the figure of a young woman with dark flowing hair. Grotesque wonder fuelled his stare as he looked into the blatant, hopeless eyes of the young woman. She seemed vaguely familiar.

Of course. He'd seen her as he walked through the main entrance not too long ago. Only though, then she had been a carven figure clothed in stone standing alone among the grave markers.

"You've seen her." The moustache quivered again. "At the gate."

"Yes."

"Do you know who she is?"

His eyes travelled till they met the hollow black ones of the officer. "No."

"Well, you ought to know. She is Lenalee Lee, a former exorcist, a fallen one, so to speak. She lived during the second hidden war. But for her, everything might have gone smoothly, and the Earl would long have been vanquished."

"But how – "

"She loved her friends like they were the whole world. And unpardonably, she loved Allen Walker. She tried to stop him from dying. And so she prevented the total destruction of the Earl. This is a just punishment for those who forsake their roles purely due to human emotion."

"But she – "

"She prevented us from winning. I hope you remember this, Supervisor. You wouldn't want to be damned for eternity, alive but helpless."

"She's alive?! That's too cruel – "

"Nothing, my dear Supervisor, is too cruel for a woman who chose love over winning the war. She deserves it. And now, let us go to your office." The officer walked from the room, straight-backed and always righteous.

But the supervisor was indignant. Eternal suspension was a violation of human rights, and love was not something that radiated logic. Central was far too strict. He had to make sure they could win this war, so that no other exorcist would suffer the same fate as the sad, _living_ girl in the glassy tomb.

As he followed the officer, he looked back. Her eyes were drooping with tears, it seemed, and her expression mournful_. Love like that cannot be stopped,_ he thought. _We need more of such love. Central has so much more to learn._

Behind him, a single tear plopped inaudibly into the suspension fluid, even as glassy eyes observed the Supervisor walking away.

_I'm sorry, Allen._

* * *

A/N: Hahaha, how's this. Lenalee tried to stop Allen from dying, so he didn't succeed but he still died anyway. And so Central cast her into that weird medium where she will leave forever in misery. Thew new Supervisor doesn't like the way the story ended, but Lenalee, still very much alive, tears for Allen who she indirectly killed to no good end. So yes heh. Please review thanks :D


	17. On Vanity

Disclaimer: i own nothing hah~

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Women in the Victorian age are vases. They preen and primp, keeping themselves fair and clean, always proper in demeanour and well-schooled in courtly etiquette. But the women of the Black Order do not conform.

*

Girls her age dream about snazzy love, study new fashions with an alarming ferocity, dance their beaded slippers to threads in overheated ballrooms in the style of the century, and spend copious amounts of time and money on pampering their vanity. But she does not, she cannot, she will not. She does fantasize about love – she is young, after all – but in her gloomy mindscape cupid fleets with the speed of a chilling wind over desolate moors, under black-tinted skies. Only in her wildest dreams does she even dare to hope for a breezy, sunlit future with clear green meres, rolling plains and fluffy clouds. She likes fashion; sometimes she gets a magazine or two so she can pore over the latest trends in winter wear. Yet even as she modifies her snug uniform she makes sure that the modifications do not obstruct her legs and her power. Dance she does, though not on polished parquet floors. She twirls, legs moving in a circular arc, twisting with the wind as her Dark Boots carry her with the birds.

Above all, vanity is hardly her concern. She does know that she is pretty; her mirror attests to the fact. Her skin is clear, her eyes are bright, and her laughter tinkles with the melody of a running brook. But these sometimes depress her. Too oft she wonders if there ever will come a time when she can enjoy her beauty and her idealistic notions of life without restriction, without having to worry, with her burdened heart, about her friends and family.

For her friends and comrades she loves with maternal passion. Her young, small heart is overflowing with the enormous love she bestows. Her looks matter not, really, while her life, and the life of the world, hangs on a thread. Without complaint she accepts the faint criss-crosses on her once smoothly white legs. For these are the lines of the world; they are the records of the lives she has saved.

And of course, it does help that Lavi and Nii-san often praise her for the work that incurred the scars. They tell her that these scars are the physical manifestations of her innate courage, of the huge sacrifices she has made as an exorcist. Allen, too, lavishes her battle wounds with praise. He tells her, now and then, that she should not be overly burdened by the sight of those unbecoming lines on her once-flawless legs, for they mark her as an angel. She draws strength from Allen's quiet acceptance of his deformed arm, and she knows that if one day he were to fall for her, he would not mind the scars.

For the sake of the world, and for the sake of her world, she endures the unsightly blemishes upon her fair body. For she is an exorcist, and all exorcists accept battle scars. Womanly pride she does not lack. But womanly courage she possesses too, and she whines not about her god-sent tattoos.

*

She has ever been the butt of unkind jokes. As a child, she used to dream dreams of satin and of silk, of velvet and of fur. The clothes make a woman, so she was told as a young, gullible child. So her perception of beauty used to lie in the wearer's apparel. So when she started to work and people ridiculed her clumsiness, and she had no money to buy the fine cloth that would mark her as a lady, she started to doubt her own looks. She has never been particularly pretty – as a child, she often heard her aunt exclaim, "What a plain, dull child!"

_Plain, dull child. Plain child._

Then, after losing her hundredth job, she becomes more aware of her looks and her dressing. Standing in front of her old, chipped mirror, she sees two empty dark pools in her own face. Her cheeks are sunken, her eyes glazed over like spring defeated by winter, and her lips are chapped by the bitter wind from the north. Her hair, gathered in its customary bun, gives her an oldish look. And her clothes! They disgust her and fill her with revulsion for her own pitiable self. Where once she wore silks in pastel colours in sun-spun dreams, breathtaking as a rainbow, she now wore a plainly made black dress of some common material. Her likeness is that of a servant girl, not that of a noblewoman.

Perhaps that was why she disliked her exorcist uniform at first glance. The material was good and strong, but it had not the silky sheen of the gossamer silk of her long-cherished dreams. She had wanted to breeze along in elegant chiffon, with billowing skirts and corseted waists.

But now, she loves her uniform with all the passion of her years. The comfortable fit gives her flexibility, and enhances her fighting ability.

Looking in the mirror as she prepares for her latest mission, she smiles a little more confidently than before. In the full-length fluid mirror she sees a tall, shapely woman whose figure is comfortably swathed in the robes bearing the insignia of the Black Order. Her dark curls fall about her face; they are glossy and well combed. And her eyes are no longer shallow pools of light, but are instead starry seas filled with emotion.

Clothes do not make the woman, she decides.

Life maketh the woman.

* * *

A/N: I think both Lenalee and Miranda are women who don't really conform to the demands of the victorian society. So there. I tried to juggle between different tenses, and hopefully did it correctly. I know this isn't really very good - it didn't turn out the way i wanted it to, but i insisted on writing it anyway - but yeahh, this is the best i can do currently. May improve/edit it in future if i get some inspiration for this thing, heh. Okayyy hahaha thanks for reading, and reviews are much appreciated! :DD


	18. Circular

Disclaimer: obviously, i own nothing, hahahaha.

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Giving and taking are two words that have ever resonated in human civilisation. They represent a circular flow of ideas, of contributing, and of receiving. All humans engage in such spherical interactions; they are independent of time and space. Circular, the flow is, and circular it will remain. Human nature ebbs and flows with the flowering and withering of years, but still people give and people take. It is almost second nature to humans, who have long seen in this exchange the mechanism that drives the human spirit. And the human spirit still burned fair and bright, like the glint of sunlight on adamant, even in the evil days the world had fallen into.

The second coming of the Earl, long heralded, was part of a circular flow of evil. His hatred for all things holy did not die with his first defeat, and he rose again to shadow the world with his indomitable contempt for creation. Such is the cycle of evil, for the slaying of one invariably gives rise to the rising of another manifestation of primordial earthbound malice. Of the Earl though, this tale does not speak, though his coming was the catalyst for the story in question.

In the days of the long starless night, the Black Order was revived and called upon to fulfil its ancient duty. The exorcists and finders, of course, had more than their fair share of receiving and taking. But this tale does not speak of them. Instead, this tale captures the story of a pair of unlikely friends who defied the norm. One giveth, and the other taketh away.

Komui had come to the Headquarters to be near his young sister. And Reever had come because he believed in helping to rid the world of those demons who held full sway over the living, and also because he had nothing else to live for after his family had been slain by those metalloid creations of the Earl.

As the Black Order members at the Headquarter observed, Reever had always been the one helping Komui. Komui was eternally exhausted, trying to protect the exorcists and save the world at the same time. So Reever helped him. Reever tried to boost the morale of the Science Department, he tried to help the Supervisor with as much paperwork as was humanely possible, and he tried to empathise.

And that included waking the Supervisor.

"Supervisor! Lenalee's getting married!"

And then Komui would wake and jump up and scream and cry and generally turn the whole world upside down. But Reever was always there to clear up the mess (and of course that included clearing the inexhaustible stacks of paperwork around the office).

Dependence on someone else's help always extends till it becomes a life-long crutch. Even after the war, Reever had to undergo sleepless nights planning Lenalee's wedding, because Komui was too busy crying and moping. He mailed the wedding invites, he planned the menu, he got the finders to decorate the Headquarters, and he even cleared out Komui's office.

So when Komui found himself staring down at the marble grave that marked Reever's final resting place, where he would lie till the trumpets blew and the snow lifted and the world was reborn, he was understandably lost. His good friend was barely halfway through life. He should not have died, no, not when they were already in a new enlightened age un-blighted by the Earl's malevolent tricks. He felt alone, like never before. Alone, cast in solid stone, upon a pedestal at the apex of the world. He was at the zenith of his life, but poor Reever had gone down just like that, even as the glorious sun rose to midday bloom.

What was one to do for a friend who had always been there? More importantly, how was one to cope with the loss of a dear friend? Komui was devastated, utterly so. But life was a circular arc, after all. It doesn't matter how long your friends are with you, nor the length of the threads of life-spans. One life always leads on to the next, and Komui found his panacea in helping Reever's young son through life. Reever junior was the son he never had.

It is strange; the way life unfolds, pulling her body from the tangles of emotions. The ashes of the past will always give rise to the rebirth of new life, new hope and new friendships. So it was with Komui. The passing of his friend, the friend who had been such an integral part of his life, brought with it the epoch of change. Komui was no longer the one who received. Now, Reever junior, in the stead of his courageous father, received with a grateful heart the help of his father's good friend. And he knew that in the future he would give back as freely to his 'uncle', for all the help accorded him, when the older one faltered into the wrinkled bosom of old age.

One giveth, and the other taketh away. Only, giving and taking knows no bounds and marks no one.

Circular they are, and will always remain.

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A/N: So here's a friendship (sort of) fic on Reever and Komui. I think they're quite funny ahaha. And my opinion of Reever changed last week, when i watched the anime episode where Tapp was being turned into a skull and Reever ran out in fury. He's so awesome. And tall. And good-looking too. Omg i sound so fan-girlish. HAHAHA. I'm amused by myself.

Hahaha, how was this? I sat on this for around a fortnight - couldn't really feel my way through this one. I hope it's not too bad. Please review! And thanks for reading :D


	19. Defeat

Disclaimer: i own nothing~

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A ripple dances on the clear green pond, its circular rings swimming into the gray-green shadows beyond the bank. Crouched on the bank, face half hidden by a soft waterfall of white fringe, is a young man. His lips are clenched in an effort to restrain his emotions, and his startling gray-blue eyes are glistening with the dew of tears, where the dance of the ripple is reflected. Dry brown leaves tickle the top of his head, and the wind howls in the distance, he knows not where. The white cloak draped around him flies in the almost-gale, whipping the dead trunks of withering trees.

Rage and anger and resentment are burning in him; rage for his imbecility, anger for the ridiculous notion of destroying the world that the Earl has taken into his head, and resentment for his being chosen as the one who had to bear the heavy burdens of the dying world on his slender young shoulders. He needs to release his pent-up feelings. He needs an outlet for his anger. And so he rises, still shaking, and his solid-looking legs take him to the ivory gate hidden under the leafy canopy somewhere nearby. A wooden boat he boards, and the elderly boatman steers it down the flowing sepia river, where impenetrable grey mists gather at the two banks.

He first alights at the remains of the Headquarters. Where once stood an imposing (if scary) tower carved out of dark stone by the ancient men who first wielded the innocence, claimed to be unbreakable by any art of modern man, now gathers the ruins of cement and dust, surrounded by crumbling pillars and the dainty, dancing ghosts of memories long forgotten. He shivers, as he should not have done, as the cold wind wraps her little finger about him. His deformed hand runs over the broken architecture, and cold tears gather at the tips of his eyes. The fleet-footed echoes of bygone eras sit with him, talk to him, and play for him scattered notes of despair clothed in melodious tunes. It is for him alone that they mourn, and it is for them that he cries, for he has failed them.

He enters the boat and on they sail into the night. And then he reaches the last stronghold of the order – the Asian Branch. Now the current headquarters, it is actually the only sanctuary left in the whole world for the exorcists who still battle the malicious Earl. Allen stares at the metal gate, guarded by the ever vigilant Fou, and he walks through without anyone the wiser. His presence is undetectable.

In the darkest training room he finds Kanda. How time has ravaged his youth! His once flowing blue hair has now been put up into the traditional topknot of a samurai, and his muscles have diminished with the waxing and waning of the ever-circling moon. The dark eyes, though, are ice-cold as always, glinting in the soft light, but they are pained. Years of fighting with monsters of such monstrosity as the akuma are has laden him with hurts that will never heal while the world lasts. His face is lined, and his tattoo has enlarged; it now sits over his entire chest. And Allen knows that Kanda is dying, slowly, but surely. Mugen will not serve him long now; soon the man will pass into the land of the grey dank mists. _His days of fighting will soon be over. To think that even Kanda has aged so much…_

He wanders into the library. By the fireplace sits a man with a shock of red hair sprinkled with silver. His left eye is still covered, but his face bears scratches and wounds that have come of fighting akuma. He writes in a thick book, recording as much of the Hidden War as is humanely possible. Beside him sits a young boy, also with a shock of red hair, reading a dusty tome.

"Bookman? Can I go to the café?" The boy asks the older man.

"Yes, Lavi. But be back soon."

Allen stares in wonder. The Lavi he once knew has long left, cloaked under the deceptively indifferent mantle of the Bookman. He was forced to leave behind his cheery demeanour and his own personality when the Black Order's one last hope disappeared into the shadows and Bookman his mentor died in his last heroic battle. Now he is master to another exorcist who has also decided to be his apprentice. Allen cannot help but be surprised. But a tinge of guilt pulls at his heartstrings. If he had not failed them all those years ago, Lavi might still have been his own cheery, happy self yet. Now the scars have fallen into place, and his broken heart has become his impenetrable fortress. He fights for the memory of his friends and he lets no one else in. When Kanda goes, his mind will shatter as it did so many years ago when they did battle in the Ark. Staring at the words Lavi is writing, Allen reads, 'The Hidden War is entering its last phase. No one can tell how the war will end, but most of the members know that the only ending they will ever have is a sad one.' The green eye is still bright, but it sparkles with tears more often, in spite of the stony heart within.

_I'm sorry, Lavi. I never meant to hurt you all so. _

Miranda he meets just off the hall. She has taken to wandering the corridors at night, for insomnia has taken over her life. Holding Time Record close to her chest, she mutters something incomprehensible as she stumbles her way down the dark hallway. Allen wants to help her, to comfort her, but he cannot. Soon she turns into the cafeteria, and he follows. He sees her sit at a table where another is sitting. Krory smiles at Miranda and the two middle-aged folk settle into comfortable silence. Krory's hair is all white now, and his shoulders stoop with the weight of the intervening years. Miranda has strands of grey in her dark curly hair, and she has put on weight around the middle. Both stare with empty eyes into the dark recesses filled with swaying silhouettes of the past. Allen's heart aches and he turns away.

In the office of the science department he finds Komui, Reever and Bak having a serious discussion about the dwindling number of exorcists. An empty coffee pot stands on the table, and yet the scientists are still debating. Komui is no longer the man he once was; no glint ever lights up his glasses these days. The loss of his sister destroyed all joy for him. Reever has aged. Fine wrinkles crease his face, and his yellow hair has almost faded to white. Bak, too, has aged. But the three brainy men still fight for the Order. They still try their best to save the world while protecting the exorcists.

Allen cannot stand the sight of his aging, wrinkled companions who have to work so hard still, to save the dying world, when he has not aged, no, not one bit. He suffers not nowadays, and no hot blood rushes from hasty battle wounds. Ashamed, and guilty, he slides out the door, and into the boat. Down the rivers the boat rides, until it reaches the mansion of the Earl.

The first room he looks into contains only a worn piano and a fat Earl. Spindly fingers hop on yellowed keys as the Earl, as obese as of yore, plays a well-known melody._ The Fourteenth's song_. Mask still fitted on perfectly, the Earl's guttery voice chimes alongside the soft melody. Even the Earl has mellowed, Allen thinks. Where once the Earl could only play the sweet song with adept fingers, now Allen can discern the bittersweet undertones fuelled by the Earl's own desolation. _He did love the Fourteenth. Yet he still wants to destroy the world?_

In the darkest room at the end of the longest corridor he finds what he seeks.

In the dim room he sees floating bears and mountains of presents. Upon a velvety bed nearby lies the prone, sleeping figure of an adult Road. Her hair is still the same vivid colour as of yesteryear, but her features have hardened with the passage of merciless time. Tiptoeing past her he opens the prettily decorated door at the end of the garish room. Therein lies she whom he seeks.

The anteroom is draped with finery. Soft curtains hang from the ceiling, and elegant tables sit with well-carved chairs. A replica of a doll-house, fitted to the extreme taste of the First Child. In the middle of the small room Allen sees an armchair, turned away from him. With slow deliberate steps, he walks towards the chair. His once-heart flutters rapidly against his ribs, and his eyes feel a desire to water. He stoops, and comes face to face with the life-sized doll.

And the pearly tears flow, stormy and unquenchable.

The once lustrous green hair is still glossy, and the fine features still remain, though they are now cloaked in layers of thick cosmetics. The dress the doll wears is frilly – girl-like, even. The long lashes quiver slightly in sleep, as if the spirit of the doll is being chased by the claws of evil nightmares. Allen's thin pale hand caresses her face ever so gently. Her eyelids flicker. Dark eyes focus on him, and he feels himself drowning in an empty abyss, into a deep well of non-being. Her unseeing eyes seem to catch him, and one wasted hand reaches out to stroke his face.

"Allen-kun." Somewhere, a soft voice speaks, and the woman in front of him smiles. _She should not have seen me. She should not have been able to!_ Allen panics.

But the woman still placidly strokes his thin face. He can see the years of mental anguish she has undergone; her spirit has been broken. She has ever loved her friends and family with the whole of her loving heart. The defeat and subsequent disappearance of one well-loved (by her, at least) Allen Walker had been too much for her to bear. Captured by the Noah, and turned into a plaything for Road, she has lived thus for decades on end. _She sees me in the past. Time doesn't exist for her anymore._

His own thin hands cupping her pallid face, Allen stands over her. His tears roll off his face and some land on her painted cheeks, glistening there.

"I'm sorry, Lenalee."

He boards the boat and sails back to beyond. There he stares into the water again, mesmerized by the ripples that play in the clear pond. In the rustling green waters he sees the Headquarters whole again, as in his early days at the Order. He sees Kanda fighting with a sword somewhere in a beautiful, rebuilt Edo, and Lavi-Bookman walking the earth with Lavi junior, weaving all the hidden stories into historical webs. There Bak is, enjoying the Chinese spring in a pavilion newly built by the Asian Branch, while Fou darts around. Reever and Komui experiment with things weird and interesting in the sparkling laboratories of the Headquarters, while Krory and Miranda scamper after their many grandchildren.

In the centre of his nicely woven dream sits Lenalee. On her right hand sits a golden ring, where the letters A and L are intertwined. The dream Allen reaches out for her hand, and she extends it, only –

Splash!

– the castle in the water breaks, and his bubble bursts.

Where once swayed an underwater tale that arose from the happy dreams of his youth, now dances a ripple. Its circular rings swim into the gray-green shadows beyond the bank. Crouched on the bank, face half hidden by a soft waterfall of white fringe, is a young man. His lips are clenched in an effort to restrain his emotions, and his startling gray-blue eyes are glistening with the dew of tears, where the dance of the ripple is reflected in them. Dry brown leaves tickle the top of his head, and the wind howls in the distance. The white cloak draped around him flies in the almost-gale, whipping the dead trunks of withering trees.

The boy should have been shivering from the cold. Only, he is not a boy, nor a man, for that matter. He is the shade who was Allen Walker in life, the dearly departed exorcist, famed Destroyer of Time. He is same Allen whom the Earl defeated. And now he can only wait in the lands outside the realm of Time, as the Black Order struggles towards its slow demise.

The ghost of one Allen Walker, whose name sits dejectedly in the hidden history of the world, can only wait for his friends to join him as they will surely do. For now the Earl grows stronger daily, and no man can ever again destroy Time.

The ripple spreads, and the Earl is ready for the nine days of darkness.

* * *

A/N: This is my longest oneshot yet! I kind of like it. It was really nice to write, and the words just flowed. But i think it mightn't be that easy to understand. So basically what happened is this: The Earl defeated Allen, and Allen died. The Black order still kept fighting though, but of course they will finally be defeated in the end. And about Lavi - he became Bookman, and got an apprentice whom he named Lavi in remembrance of his youthful self.

Yepps, so how did you find this? The ending is abit weird though. I couldn't decide how to best end it :/

Please review, anyway! And many thanks for reading :D


	20. Bookman

Disclaimer: i own nothing ahaha

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Display caption: _This letter written on parchment was found in the ruins of an old castle in the heart of our old city. We reproduce it here, though experts are still trying to decipher the meaning behind these strange words. When found, the scroll was addressed to someone named 'Lavi', and was signed Bookman at the end. We leave you, dear visitor, to interpret this mysterious scroll yourself. _

_

* * *

_

Lavi,

When you read this, I shall in all probability be dead. But I want you to know what my life was like, why I became what I was, and this may help you to understand yourself better.

I was a young man once, too.

Perhaps, Lavi, looking at me now you'd think that I never knew youth. But I did. In the spring of my life I waltzed with Youth in the blooming gardens of my faraway homeland. Now though, all you see is your old, frail panda-like jiji who can only stroll with Death in her dark, decaying battlefield.

As a child, I never thought that I would ever become a Bookman. I'd heard of them before – mysterious men who walked the earth looking for interesting tales of humanity to unearth and secret history to record. Not exciting at all, in my humble childish opinion. But time does change mindsets, Lavi. I've grown to love my job. I'm much too old to engage in battle anymore, really, but being a Bookman does have its perks. You get to experience many things an average human wouldn't be able to. I hope you appreciate that.

I didn't become a Bookman because I had nothing better to do. I was happily engaged to my childhood sweetheart, when tragedy struck. Her mother died of some disease or other, I can't quite remember now, and she was utterly heartbroken. She would cry for days on end, and she even postponed our wedding to some later date. I was as sympathetic as I could be – which isn't saying much, actually. I comforted her best I could, and tried to endure her relentless crying. But the tears never stopped.

She was so attached to her mother, that womb that gave her life. One night she went to the graveyard, and I followed behind, for I feared for her life and sanity. She lay crying at the foot of the marble stone, and I watched, pityingly, from behind some clumps of tall, dense grass. I was about to rise and go over, when all light was blocked as a fat man appeared, floating in the dark sky. His silhouette was fleshy, and it fully covered the silver rays of the moon. He went to her, and spoke those abhorrent words. The last word she ever spoke was "Mother!"

I can still hear those very words now. Her shrill voice has never left me. It dances, somewhere, in the locked empty halls of my soul, waiting for me to break and to crumble into the dust of the earth.

I saw the strange metallic skeleton slay my beloved. And I ran, away from that dreadful scene. I ran away from myself, even. As I told you, I had an acquaintance among the Bookmen. He taught me, and inducted me into his clan. For years I travelled the world, learning, recording, and not living. And then I met you. You were like the child I never had, the child I should have had. I don't know if you still remember those days, but when I found you, you were just a street urchin nearly dying of starvation. I took you and I fed you and I clothed you. And I kept you as a companion, to keep those terrifying lonely nights and days at bay. Grandchild of my soul you became, unrelated by flesh and blood, but always comforting and caring. And your red hair always reminds me of my beloved, which might be why I have always had conflicting feelings towards you. Part of me wants to care for you as my friend cared for me in those far-off days, but another part of me wants to abandon you, to cause you pain, as my beloved did when she gave up the living for the dead.

After a couple years, I began to see you as my successor. So I trained you in our secret art. I brought you around the world with me, to many places, both exotic and desolate. But I've never really managed to balance my heart and mind.

Even now, I still have feelings of attachment. I thought that age would destroy all worldly feelings I have ever had. But it hasn't. Coming to the Black Order has made these feelings even harder to suppress, in fact. I know I've scolded you one too many times for not acting like a Bookman, but deep down, I have always agreed with your actions. What we Bookmen do is essentially a selfless but selfish act. We are selfless in that we deny our own feelings and dedicate ourselves to recording. The lifeless history of the world is our mistress and our family, and we carry out our tasks without complaints, for the greater good of the world. Who knows when the information will be needed? But even as we tend the macro-garden of our lives, we harm those around us. They care for us, but we are unable to return back those feelings that make us human, because of our singular loyalty to our clan.

I would rather I be selfish enough to reject that vow I took years ago, that vow that has tied me to silent recording these past years. We are bystanders, nothing more. Only now do I truly realize the folly of my actions. To reject my humanity – it was a decision too hastily made. You are still my apprentice, Lavi. Take care to choose your path wisely. You are an exorcist. You are also a Bookman-in-training. Follow your heart.

Bookmen have no need of hearts. If someday you find that you can survive without needing to feel, if someday you discover that you want to freeze your emotions for eternity, if someday you want to retreat from history and become the unnamed ones who write, then by all means take the mantle.

But Lavi, you are still young. I leave you to decide. I do love you, you know, grandson of my soul. I can admit that now, on my deathbed. Choose your path wisely.

Bookman.

* * *

A/N: Done with this! I think deep down Bookman does care for the exorcists, and for lavi (this one especially heh). I'm not too sure about how this one is - is it okay? I don't know, but it feels undressed to me. As in, i feel like this one's not quite polished..

HAHAHA. Anyway thanks for reading, and do review if you can! :D


	21. Of You And Me

Disclaimer: i own nothing!~

Onesided Lavi/Lenalee. Implied Allen/Lenalee.

* * *

His pen poised, he looked down at the parchment with his lone green eye.

_Rain-cloaked mist shivers over the threshold_

_As I leave the doorway_

I left yesterday, on a drizzling morning. I don't know what possessed me to do that – I could have stayed, I should have stayed. It was well within the rights of my duty, both to the Bookmen and to the Order, to stay. But I left. The tide called me just before the darkness lifted, and I opened the iron-wrought gate. From the entrance I could see the thick fog all around, swirling, drifting, painting a maze of decaying smog. It was a little over 2 years ago that I first stepped into this imposing marbled foyer. And now, I am stepping out of it, back again into the dark morning, walking back into my previous life, where I was Deke.

_Walking into the grey dawn_

_Scents of yesteryear drizzling_

I thought that perhaps, by walking into the sunrise, I might be able to forget you. But more memories began to rain on me instead. Your floral scent, your ready smile, your lilting dancer's walk, even your flowing hair… They flooded my brain, and tore my heart open again. Above me, rain fairies gathered, blending with the ever-darkening mist.

_The lone star asks me_

_To whom I bid farewell_

But there was one twinkling star amidst all that greyness and desolation. It looked at me, that solitary eye of the night, and smiled sadly with all the magnitude of its corolla. It asked me to whom I bided farewell so sadly. And I told him, it was a question of what I was leaving, and not who. The friendships I was leaving behind, the master I was abandoning, the comrades whose defence I was weakening, and most of all, the heart I was shedding. All that for one person, who was only a frail young girl – well, it was stupendous in its largesse. In a way I was leaving behind my carefully cultivated facade. I have never really managed to grasp the whole Bookman concept. So leaving it behind was saddening, in a way, but also relieving.

Yet shedding my Bookman skin without leaving the Order would have been too suspicious. It would have implied that I had found someone to love, presumably someone within the Order. And I didn't want to make you worry. After all, you never knew how, to me, you sparkled like a clean-cut pearl on a loving palm.

_When your eyes' light I lost_

Time was when your eyes would light up upon seeing me. My goofy persona, always cheerful and optimistic in your presence, gave you amusement. In the dark hallways of the Order we would laugh, and pelt each other with cheerful insults. I would worship you with mock sincerity, and you would laugh and tell me to stop being so silly. But I couldn't help it. With you, I always felt like myself. With you, I was not Bookman Junior, no, I was Lavi. And then, yesterday, everything seemed to have changed so quickly that I knew not where I stood.

_When your hands emptied_

I knew something was wrong when I saw the light go out in your eyes. You came to me in the late afternoon, and asked me to walk with you in the wilting gardens. I agreed, like the lovesick fool that I was. Only, I felt insecure. When you looked at me from outside my door, you no longer had that sparkle in your purple eyes. You looked at me, smiling still, always friendly, but I could see that from now on, that sparkle was to be saved for one and one person only.

You pulled me out the door when I was still processing this nugget of information, and danced me down the hallways into the deserted gardens. I was happy, to feel your warm touch on my hands. And then the warmth disappeared. You saw him rounding the corner below, and dropped my hands from your soft paws. I saw your eyes sparkle with the sweet dew of love, and I knew the worst.

_By an abyss I was swallowed_

_Swimming in darkness_

_Only wealthy in desolation_

Then nothing mattered. You continued standing at the parapet, looking down the deep valleys. I did the same; only, I was perishing in the very pits of hell. From being bathed in the warm orange-red sunlight, I was suddenly swathed in yards of thick cotton-like darkness. It was like someone had drugged me before wrapping or rolling me up in layers of black cloth. I was mummified. I could not move, and there was some heavy lead pressing down my insides. Dismal music filtered through my memories, for how long, I know not.

_The orange rays of the dying sun_

_Fell on you_

Have we really spent that much time together? When I'm with you, everything falls away, and only the truth remains. Even with my heart wallowing in desolation, time flies. That one hour before the dusk zoomed past. When I next looked up, your eyes were closed. We were sitting lying side by side on the grass, and your pretty eyes were closed. The setting sun spilled his golden-orange rays on your perfect face, and -

_And I looked –_

_Innocence becomes you_

- and I looked. I couldn't look away. You seemed to glow in the warm fuzzy light, and the traces of tears on your face were all the more obvious. You chose him over me, and you had to cry to relieve your strained emotions. My fingers lightly ran along the wet lines – I'd never noticed how smooth your face was.

_Your ears received my silent confessions_

Bending, I put my mouth over your ears, and lightly brushed them with a fleeting kiss. In the whisper of the wind, I threw my longings and desires into your scattered hair. How I'd love you the moment I stepped into the Order, how your hair intrigued me, how I thought Panda jiji would kill me if he ever found out, how I loved the way you talked, how worried I was when you didn't return from fighting Eshii – those feelings I spilled to your sleeping self. It was good, that sharing.

_And to them I placed my last request_

_Speak not these same words to him_

_Speak not of things that go bump in the night_

Bending to your soft ears again, I whispered my last request to you. Please don't ever speak those same caring, loving words to him. When the thin, bony fingers of dark nightmares clutch you, don't scream his name. Don't tell him about the various menacing dreams that cloud your nights and keep you from refreshing rest. Write them in a diary, instead.

_Tell me you won't wait up_

_Nor tend roses_

_Dropped into your fair lap_

_From his hands_

Please tell me, darling, that you won't worry and fret and wear yourself thin over all his continued absences. Don't drink tonnes of coffee just so you can be there at the door to greet him when he arrives back from his heroic missions. And when he comes back through the Ark, after yet another fairytale adventure, please don't tend those fake roses he throws into your soft lap. His hands, one deformed, the other normal, may be working to save the world, but what are you to him? A trophy girlfriend? Someone who will be there for him to show off when he comes back as a hero for the umpteenth time? The roses are degrading.

_Tones of sweet melody_

_Stay, keep to yourself_

_Loving too easily, too often, too_

_Much_

Your flute-like voice has ever enchanted me. But please, I beg you; don't use that sing-song tone on him. That sweet melody of your voice is too sweet, too pleasant for another male to hear. And above all, don't tell him that you love too easily, too often and too much. He could use that against you, and leave you just to hurt you. Some males live to break women, and he might be such a guy.

_And waiting, hoping;_

_That he will shield you._

You poor, naïve girl. Tell me, are you waiting and hoping that he will shield you? His cloak and mask are for him only. You have to depend on yourself. He will cover your back in battle, but will he risk the world to save you? You may see him as your world, the centre of your tiny universe, but maybe, you are but an insignificant star to him, that glorious sun blazing in its full glory.

* * *

The pen hit the table. Poems were not his forte.

It was hard to document the feelings he had. But he had tried. Now he had left the Order behind forever. It was time to forget her. With a sigh, he closed his diary.

* * *

A/N: I've finally uploaded this. I heard this song (it's a chinese song from ... the seventies to the eighties, not sure when) and i got inspired to write this. The poem thingy isn't much good though, sorry. Some parts are mere translations of the song lyrics, and others are stuff that i put in myself. Oops seems like i'm not a poems person.

This fic's about how lavi likes lenalee, but lenalee likes allen. Lenalee knows lavi likes her, which is why she had to tell him that she likes allen. Do i make sense?

Hahaha yeahh that's about it. I'm not sure if i'm going to update this anytime soon, though. I'm currently working on two multi-chaptered fics. So i might be gone awhile haha. But don't worry, i'll be back someday :D (Probably soon haha. I'm not the kind of person who has the stamina to keep working on such long fics )

Ohh, and please review if you can. I'll really appreciate it, especially since i don't think this chapter is very good, so comments (constructive ones please xD ) would be helpful. Thanks! :D


	22. Title

Disclaimer: do you seriously think i own anything? :O

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The man put his brush down and smiled for the first time in weeks. His sideburns and beard wove together into a tangled knot, and his bedraggled clothes fluttered in the autumn wind. With a muffled groan he stretched, bones aching, before he stroked his masterpiece, his magnum opus. He had spent weeks of effort on this; it was his best portrait yet. An artist had to appreciate his own works sometimes, or he'd never get to believe that he could actually draw. And so the man smiled at his painting, loving it as he would love a child of his blood. Slowly, he raised his veins-lined, calloused hands to face level, and cupped the picture within his thick fingers.

"Title: Fat Man."

He laughed at his own title. It wasn't really funny, or particularly witty, but it would do. The title was true, anyhow; the man he had captured and immortalised on paper with his paint and pencil was really, truly fat. He looked like a cupboard of sorts from the rear view, in fact. He had just seen the fat man a couple of months ago, when he travelled past the graveyard. He had seen the fat man talking to some woman or other, and he had been struck by the comical obesity of the man.

And an artist never refuses a muse, if the fat man could be called a muse.

So there the fat man stood, pacing on paper. A huge grin was plastered on his face, and his top hat appeared to pop out of the flat plane. His white-ish coat seemed to float in the wind in the two dimensional world the artist had drawn. Yes, he was proud of his work. He had managed to capture such a comical clown-like character he had seen only once, and with such finesse too. His artistic skills must be improving.

He did not see the carriage coming. He did not see the wheels turning. He did not see the driver lose control.

*

Heaven was pretty much a nice place, after all. It was all he had imagined and more. The only two things he regretted were not being able to achieve fame for his painting skills while he still lived and leaving his beloved brother behind.

So he wasn't much pleased when he heard his name being called.

"Eshiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!"

His name resounded through the skies. He was loath to go, but tight strings jerked him towards the ground with increasing velocity. He felt those same strong gossamer threads sealing him into metal, and then moulding the metal casing into a skeleton. _What is happening?!_ From his new bony eyes he looked out. And his metaphorical heart sank into his ribs and out through his feet. He was hanging from some structure, and he was in a graveyard. In front of him, kneeling, was a sobbing middle-aged man.

Just a little behind, the same fat man he had drawn stood.

"Kill him, and wear his skin!"

And the same gossamer threads moved his limbs. He watched in horror, unable to do anything, as his own metallic limbs slashed at his brother. He was equally confused as he somehow struggled into the human skin. It grew soft and snug around his metallic self.

*

He and his comrades were moving towards the little boat that valiantly steered on through the choppy seas. They had all been instructed to eliminate the people on the boat, for those people posed a great threat to the Earl. Then a girl appeared. She took him on, one-on-one.

He smiled, and the metal hands swung up to his eyes, as the girl started charging towards him.

"Title."

* * *

A/N: Here's Eshii! Heh so how was this? A bit short, I know. Couldn't think of anything else to write, so ...it's this length. Didn't mean to post this yet, actually, but i'm going off to a chalet trip tomorrow with my class, so might as well post it now heh. Yepps haha thanks for reading! Reviews are appreciated :D


	23. The Language of Flowers

Disclaimer: i own nothing! :D

**[Allen/Lenalee]**

* * *

Flowers of many different shades lie upon her hands, and their lingering fragrances drift in the wintry wind.

Only, those hands are hewn from stone.

She, who was his beloved in life, lives no more, thrown into the earth's embrace by the hand of the man who still loves her.

*

It's been two years now, and my heart still aches. Regret trails me everywhere I go, and in all things I do. I'm sorry I didn't do more to prevent your death. No, scratch that. I'm not just sorry – I'm angry with myself. I am disappointed too, by my lack of self control. Your death was entirely my fault; mine, and mine alone. It was no one else's fault. I regret too, not telling you about it before. I swear I was going to, but somehow, I ended up not spilling the beans. I was too much of a coward then, I guess.

A month before you left this sad world, I walked into a flower shop. Even back then, I knew that women like flowers (it'd be hard not to know, with a man such as Cross Marian as your master). I wanted to surprise you with flowers. I wanted to give you something as a symbol of my growing affections. I wanted you to be happy. I wanted to give you something you could keep, if only for a little while, something you could call your own.

I asked the owner what sort of flowers were the most popular. He shot me a weird look, and told me quite simply, "Roses, that's what.'

So naïve me bought a couple of stems of pink roses (they were the prettiest in the shop, I thought) for you. I was all happy and cuddly, thinking of the various ways to surprise you and confess, and I actually thought that I would have the guts to do it. You see, I had been thinking of the best way to tell you about my feelings for days. I had imagined every possible scenario, and hoped for the best. Who knows, you might actually have broken down and cried in front of me.

But when I reached you, everything fell apart. You know how that is – you think something is going to succeed, or that something good is going to happen, and then, poof! Everything crashes down around your head, and all the pretty fantasies that you have take a good beating until their shrunken silhouettes melt into the darkness. That was how it went. I went up to you, hands quivering and legs wobbling. I was clutching the flowers so hard I thought their stems might break before they even got the chance to enter the hold of your soft fingers.

*

_The boy with the strange white hair hesitated in front of the girl with dark hair. His gloved hands twitched behind him, and the pink roses twisted in their wrappings. The girl just smiled at the boy, and walked closer. _

"_Lenalee! I have something for you…" The boy said. _

"_Hmmm?"_

_The boy held the flowers out. The girl took them. _

_Then she looked back at him. _

"_You – "_

"_I... I met a man outside just now, who said to give it to you." The whitehead concluded rather shakily. _

"_Ohhh."_

"_Yeahh."_

"_Thanks anyway, Allen-kun." And the girl turned away so the boy wouldn't see the sudden stinging tears in her eyes. _

"_You're welcome." And the boy turned away to hide the rising blush on his cheeks and the desperation churning in his stomach. _

*

Today is your death anniversary. I can still remember what happened last year. It was solemn, and Komui cried. I'm not sure if he's still angry with me. It's really hard to tell. Today's ceremony was simple enough, though. You would have liked it, I'm quite sure. Reever planned the whole thing without Komui knowing, and Komui's really touched now. He's crying again somewhere. But he cries far too much nowadays.

As for me, well, I'm still bleeding inside from where your dying scream pierced my heart. As Lavi gave his speech earlier, I started to tear. He went on and on about your sweetness, your love for your friends, and all I could think of was, I killed you. I, with all my power, all my strength, all my battle courage, all my desire to save the decaying world, killed an innocent and loving girl because my will-power bent for a single instant, giving way to the Fourteenth.

*

_The boy and the girl were in the same room. They sat at a low table, talking, and laughing merrily. The girl went out. The boy fell asleep. And then the girl came back in. She woke the boy up. The boy woke up, and opened his eyes. The girl stepped back when she realised that the grey-blue eyes had an unfamiliar golden tint to them. Noah. Her mouth opened to form an O-shaped door. The boy walked over to the girl, the stigmata on his forehead clearly visible now. His grin stretched from ear to ear as he leered at her. _

_Before she could even activate her Dark Boots, the boy had done the job. It was swift and easy – the fruit knife had gone through her heart as he had known it would. The girl stared at him, disbelief etched in her brilliant eyes. A shrill cry, so unlike her usual gentle voice, resounded through the order. It pierced his heart, and his eyes widened. He gaped at the scene before him. _

_He fainted. _

*

When I awoke a few days later, they told me you were gone. I've never had a chance to give you flowers, have I? So I'm going to get some for you now.

*

_A white-haired boy stepped into a cheerful little flower shop. _

"_Hello sir, may I help you?" The old man behind the counter at the florist's smiled at the boy. _

"_I… I'm looking for flowers for my girlfriend. What kind would you recommend?"_

"_Hmm. That would depend on your budget."_

"_No price would be too high for me."_

"_In that case, it would depend on what you are trying to imply through the flowers."_

_Later, the boy left the shop with a bundle of different flowers. He walked towards an empty dark tower standing upon a hill. He climbed. _

*

Well, Lenalee, here I am. Did you miss me? As I said earlier, I'm really very sorry for not telling you about this before. I just didn't have the guts to do it. Now it's too late, but I want to do something. I want to do something for you and for me, and maybe that will allow me to move on somewhat.

_The boy laid a single red carnation and a small bunch of forget-me-nots on the foot of the marble tomb. _

The man at the shop told me that red carnations imply that 'my heart aches for you'. He also said that forget-me-nots represent true love. So there you are, Lenalee. My heart aches every single day without you. I've never had a true day of peace after I did you in. I keep seeing your face everywhere I go; I used to see the fourteenth in mirrors, but now, I see your likeness in every glance I take. And forget-me-nots – well, they're a nice touch, aren't they? I can't forget you, literally, and I do think our love was true. It still is true, in my opinion, even if you're on the other side already.

_The boy put a sprig of marigolds and rosemary down. _

I've been told, Lenalee, that marigolds symbolise pain, grief and sacred affection. Pain, well yeah and grief, has become almost second nature to me. I should be able to take any amount of pain and grief without breaking. But your death left me an empty shell. Our affection was sacred. We never held hands once, never did things that other couples do. Sacred, really. And, well, I think you know, rosemary is a kind of spice, if I'm not wrong. But rosemary-scented remembrance is something that will always hold you close to me.

_Lastly, the boy placed a huge bouquet of red, black and white roses on the ground. _

What can I say, Lenalee? True love, death and eternal love laid out here. I won't ever forget you, that's for sure. So wait for me, won't you, on the other side of the bridge? Wear a different flower on your ghostly collar to remind yourself of my existence, and of our love.

_The boy reached down and tugged a white rose out. He pinned it to his collar. Looking towards the horizon, he thought he could see a pale figure pinning a red rose to her dress. He kissed the roses, and stepped back. _

_Then, he waved through the gathering mist. _

* * *

A/N: I got this idea when i found out about the various meanings that flowers hold. Just go google it or something - you'll find plenty about the language of flowers. Yepps ahaha so how was this? I think i wrote it a tad too casually - this is how i usually blog or something. It's a bit different from my usual style in any case. And did i put in too many flowers? There were more for love and all that kind of thing, but after i put them all in i read it through and cut away the more redundant ones.

So thanks for reading! And do review if you can - I'd really appreciate it! :D

(and omg, new moon is out in cinemas now! :D )


	24. A Monster Twice Over

Disclaimer: i own nothing~

* * *

All little girls dream of a happy ever after. Some dream of mansions that come together with husbands of name and money. Some dream of palaces, those sprawling complexes with chandeliers and luxurious carpets draping the polished floors, with kings and princes hidden away in ornate rooms, their rears fixed on large thrones. And yet others dream of castles, those dark, gloomy mansions of yore, where they would live happily for the rest of their days with their one true love, who would always be a bad boy made good.

But she has never dreamt of anything of the sort. She has been taught to be content, young girl that she is, to live in her modest home with her doting parents and caring sister. She does not enact within her mind pretty daydreams where handsome princes or dashing dukes sweep in on their majestic steeds and gracefully sink to their knees before her humble self. She has always known that she is not what men call pretty. She is barely into her teenage years, but already, she has looked at herself in the mirror and found herself wanting in terms of her distorted facial features, her wantonly boyish figure, and her lack of womanly graces. Her skin is pale and smooth, but her features do not come together to bless her with the face of a belle. Most dresses hang nicely on her straight figure, but she knows all too sadly how she has no curves to speak of. And she is such a klutz that she despairs, ever, of finding a man who would love her for what she is.

She is too ugly, too dull, too boring. She has nothing to attract anyone. She is almost a monster in her crinkled skin, with appendages stuck on the wrong way, in weird orientations. Nose too crooked, eyes too small, and arms too long… the list goes on.

The way it is, the way she sees it, she will never have men paying homage to her. She wishes sometimes, when the silvery rain goes pitter-patter on the roof, and she bends over with cold, for a man who will someday sweep her off her feet. Or men.

But her sister is a fairy. Her sister has dark hair that waves ever so gently, large eyes that sparkle, soft lips that pout lusciously, legs that go on forever, and skin so clear and pretty that it could rival the luminescence of moonlight. Her sister is a beauty. She loves her sister with all the expanse of he tender little heart, and she lavishes praise and care on the creature that is her sister's beauty, although at times jealousy stings her with a little needle.

Her sister too, loves her, the only other one besides their parents to love Eliade for what she is – an ugly young girl. Her family, her sister especially, makes Eliade feel less like a monster. Out on the streets, in school, even, children taunt her for not having a proper face. They taunt her for her physical defects. Adults too, shun her on the street, and young women with stomachs as round as watermelons steer clear from her path, as if afraid that direct contact would allow ugliness to spread to the seeds within them.

Even the old lady who sells roses by the end of the street is afraid of her. The old woman is wrinkled, old, toothless, but even she looks like an elegant queen besides Eliade of the distorted features fame. Still, Eliade loves roses. For one, her sister bathes in rose water; she fills the tub with clear cold water from the well, and throws in handfuls of rose petals. The faint scent stirs the air in the musty bathroom, and spreads a misty fragrance throughout the house. She loves them for their smell, and for their association with her beloved sister. Moreover, Eliade likes roses for their colours. They dazzle with their many colours, and she feels that even dark dank castles would benefit from having some around.

---

But even roses cannot conquer that sickly sweet smell that comes with Death.

When Eliade dies, her sister finds herself drowning in grief. She refuses to remove her shapely hand from her sister's translucent thin one, and she lays her head besides the pale thin face of her sister, and cries. Her salty tears wet the bedspread, and tangle her own hair, but the sister does not care. She has known that the end was coming for some time, but she cannot take that cruel blow from reality without some weeping. For some time now, she has seen Eliade growing frailer by the day. Her hair started to fall out, and her eyes grew ever larger in that small pale face.

And now Eliade is sleeping peacefully on the white sheet, with her caring elder sister weeping at the side.

It is not too long before the sister ends up crying, again, on the tombstone that bears Eliade's name. She sits on the marble that protrudes from underneath the marble marker, and she lets her tears flow with stormy easiness. Grief unchecked often begets greater grief, and the sister knows that something is about to happen. She sees it in the way the wind flies across the night sky, in the way the stars twinkle sporadically, and in the way a chilly silence slowly settles onto the snow-cloaked graveyard.

"Let me help you recall your sister from the abominable god who has abandoned this world."

The girl turns to see a fat man standing beside a metal skeleton.

"Eliade!" The awful cry rings throughout the silent night.

The metal skeleton comes to life.

"Kill her, and wear her skin."

A flash, a scream as blade hits bone, and then Eliade's sister will now forever be known as Eliade.

---

And soon she evolves, and becomes a level two. She is better able to control her bloodlust now – she is able to treat her sister's body with the love and care she thinks fit. She adds a few changes here and there – yellow hair instead of brown, and she is happy.

She finds joy in getting men to pay attention to her. It is not difficult, that. Not now, when she has the perfect body. Sometimes she feels a pang of guilt for having killed her own sister, but she forgives herself time and again. After all, she had been under the control of the Earl when that happened, so technically it wasn't her own fault.

She carries on her sister's tradition of taking rose-bathes, and each evening she dresses herself in the prettiest dress she can find. Then down the streets and down marble stairs she glides, to ballrooms where men gather around her and praise her for her extreme beauty. She always leaves in the carriage of one of the men, and each time she ends up in a dark deserted area, with blood on her clothes and a pile of fine clothes on the ground.

Most times she is able to control her bloodlust, to enjoy the attention given to her. But there are times when she loses control and ends up in her apartment, with only her mirror for company as she stares at the bloodstained gown.

But she is easily satisfied.

At least, she is happy until she meets Arystar Krory. He awakens in her a primordial desire. When he saves her by breaking her fall one unlucky evening, her akuma heart beats with a renewed vigour. She feels a blush creep onto her pale cheeks and her cursed skin tingles under his gentle gloved touch.

---

She finds herself walking the empty hallways more often than usual now. The dark castle that she has never expected to live in has enclosed her, and in her hands she holds Krory's heart. But she feels as if her own heart has slipped away from her, into the gentlemanly hands of the baron she _loves_.

She does not deserve to be here. She is as much a monster as she ever was. Now she is a soulless fiend with a glamorous face; then, she was an ugly, faceless creature with a soul. She has been a monster twice, a thing that is doomed to lurk hidden in the shadows. She has never been able to escape her fate – that of a monster – and will never be able to do so. For to be a hidden creature of the night is her destiny, and neither death nor rebirth can change that.

_The past always haunts the future_, she thinks. _Why else would I be a monster twice over?_

She does love Arystar, she really does. Her heart skips a beat when he buys her roses, and when he tells her that Eliade is the prettiest name he has ever heard.

When she is alone though, she can feel the cold shadows trailing her, touching her with all their ghost-whispers of centuries. Akuma do not sleep, but when she closes her eyes in the semblance of sleep, she can smell the bloodthirsty anger of Arystar's innocence rearing its head at her, the monstrous complexity that she is.

She can feel bloodlust gnawing at her insides again. And then, slowly, desperately, she tries to regain her sanity. She needs a mirror to reassure herself of her looks. Maybe then she might forget about her hunger.

In the mirror at the end of the hall she sees a face that could launch a thousand ships. If she had been born in another life, another time, she might have had a different fate, but no; she is only Eliade-the-akuma here. _The past always haunts the future, _she whispers to herself. She turns away from the cold eyes she sees in the mirror – not hers, of course, how could it be? – and tosses the roses in her arms into the air.

_These soft roses are not for me. I am a monster, and I deserve only those monstrous atrocities that Arystar breeds. _

Her petite feet dance down the hallway, treading gently on the roses.

_I have always been a monster, but I am an akuma now, and I will kill. _

* * *

A/N: I realised that I haven't updated for 3 weeks! Yepps this is a look at Eliade haha. This was inspired by twentyfiveraven's fic Half Heresy. I like it lots - if you liked this, please do go read Half Heresy. I assure you it's miles better than this. And I'm very sorry - I think I mixed up my tenses for this one-shot oops. I used quite a few 'would's, but i think it should actually be 'will'. But I can't decide D: (haha if you know which I should use I'd be glad to hear about it)

But anyway, thanks for reading! Reviews are appreciated heh (:


	25. A Stalk of Grain

Disclaimer: I own nothing!

* * *

There are days when I open my eyes and remember the happy times. And then I smile, because I have not forgotten you; I have not left the wispy memories of your wood-scented touch, the knife-sharp arch of your aquiline nose and the crinkles around your hazel eyes behind me at the crossroads of time.

A whole century has passed since we parted ways. From the start, I knew we would never be able to last; two young exorcists with two different paths to take. You were always the fighter, the one who happily signed up because you wanted to destroy the Earl. I was different. I resented the fact that the Order had taken away my life, and forced me into servitude for a lost cause.

Somehow, we grew apart in the short time we spent here together. I never really got to say goodbye…

Whenever I awake fresh from nightmares of creeping darkness, I see your face. Your light eyes twinkle at me from across the room, and I can almost taste the scent of your tattered cloak. You left for your final mission the morning after we had a small argument. You walked in, and bid me adieu with just two words.

"_Good-bye…"_

How could I have known that we were bidding farewell for eternity?

"_I will see you soon…" _

I said that to you as you walked out. I'm not sure if you heard it. I think you did. But what does it matter? We will never cross paths again, because the iron-tipped gates of the netherworld are closed to me for all eternity, until the Earl dies.

I am, after all, the exorcist who cannot die, not merely because of my Innocence, but because of the hordes of finders, scientists and exorcists who will sacrifice themselves for me, because I am the guardian of the cube.

That is my fate, and I accept it. A century and more of fighting has resigned me to my destiny. Your face still haunts my waking dreams, but I am now Hevlaska the exorcist, and I am no longer Hevlaska the woman.

The hair you used to run your calloused fingers through, the soft cheeks you used to caress, the eyes you used to kiss – all these are no longer what they once were. I am no longer a woman; I am an exorcist, an exorcist whose innocence has emptied her life and swallowed her whole in its astounding wake.

Despite all that though, I still want you. I want you to hold me in your warm embrace, I want you to knit your thin fingers into my hair and rest your nose in it as if it were a bouquet of the sweetest and most fragrant roses. I want to hear you say _"you are my angel"_ again; I want to place my hand on your cheek and dance my fingers across your day-old stubble.

Sometimes, I wonder if the others can see how pathetic I really am. Can they sense my ancient grief? Can they see the ghosts of my tears falling lightly under my glowing sheen?

My life is no longer a life; I am but a soul enclosed in crystallised glass, waiting patiently for the Destroyer of Time to truly destroy the Earl. When blood spills and the Earl crumbles into the iron-red dust and the very fibres of his existence are carried away into decades of forever, my bonds will break and I will freely leave the cage of my soul. Maybe then I can meet up with you in the land where all things meet, and we can stroll down the glades of Elysium, hand in hand, and dither in the lingering autumn fragrance of eternity.

But that is really too much to ask. My life has spilled over the dirt of the earth, like the morning dew, ever present yet never acknowledged, always seen but never thanked. The autumn wind sweeps over the earth with her carrion cry, and I know that I must wait.

I am an exorcist, not a woman.

Despite that though, I will never forget your twinkling eyes. I will never forget you. Even as I predict and foretell, I see you, waiting for me on the edge of the world. It gives me hope, because I still hope to reunite with you, in the land beyond the withering sickle moon.

* * *

How sad that I hope

to see you even now,

after my life has emptied itself

like this stalk of grain

into the autumn wind.

(Ono no Komachi)

* * *

A/N: This was written from Hevlaska's pov, if you haven't realised. Nothing much to say about it, actually :/

Anyway, I am in all probability not going to update Circular anymore. I'm no longer into this style of writing (though it's the style that comes the most naturally to me). I want to do more... metaphysical (is this even the right word!) kind of fics. Of course, I'll update this if I ever get any suitable inspiration. But for now, let's just say that I'm putting this on hold indefinitely. Thank you everyone who fav-ed this/reviewed/read this/whatever. I'm thankful for your support and whatnot.

Thanks for reading! Reviews would be appreciated (:


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